


Dragon’s Grace

by MagicaDraconia16



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Creature Fic, M/M, Secret Snarry Swap 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-09 13:09:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8891983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicaDraconia16/pseuds/MagicaDraconia16
Summary: Unbeknownst to everyone, the Dragon Pox vaccine does more than just vaccinate against Dragon Pox. The Potters are in the middle of little Harry’s vaccinations when they must go into hiding. Fast forward to the first Task in the Triwizard Tournament, and the dragon Harry faces calls to a part of him that’s not quite as gone as it should be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I had the idea for this months ago, and when I (foolishly) decided to attempt my first ever NaNo this year (as you can see, I failed miserably), then this seemed like the perfect idea. When the prompts for Snarry Swap were made available, the above prompt seemed like a godsend – fitting nicely into my story. Big thanks to the mods who allowed me to use the prompt for NaNo, and also granted me the inevitable extension that came with it.
> 
> Written for Prompt #25 from Slashwriter: Moments from death Severus Snape is saved by the grace of a dragon. For he is Dragoonal (dragonkin/dragon shifter), a royal bloodline thought gone. Soon he will awaken with the blood fury of the need to mate and fight any who stand in his way of seeing Harry, an unknown Dragoonal himself.

_Dragoonal, or dragonkin, are a rare type of dragon-shifter. Most Dragoonal are born, with the bloodlines being very strictly tracked. Occasionally, however, a Dragoonal will be created through a ‘dragon’s grace’. Nobody quite knows what this ‘grace’ is, as it doesn’t appear to have been granted for centuries, and any descriptions of it are frustratingly vague._

_According to the records we **do** have, the first step is being injured by a dragon. Apparently this is a deliberate injury, caused when the actions of the being so injured have impressed the dragon. Then, whenever the being should become grievously ill or dying, the dragon itself will die [for this reason, it is usually elderly dragons who begin the process]. When the dragon dies, its spirit, or something similar, leaves the dragon carcass behind, and instantaneously travels to enter the chosen being. _

_After a period that looks like death, the chosen being rises again, transformed._

—recovered scrap of parchment from the Bulgarian Dragon Reserve, author unknown, year unknown. 

 

 _September, 1980_  
“James, I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Lily Potter protested to her husband, clutching her two-month-old son to her chest. “I mean, Harry hasn’t finished all his vaccinations yet!” 

“Lily, this is to keep us safe,” sighed James, running a hand through his hair. “What good would vaccinations do Harry if Vol— _You Know Who_ finds us?” 

Torn, Lily bit her lip and looked down at the sleeping boy in her arms. He was right in the middle of his Dragon Pox vaccinations. The first two had been just three days ago, and Harry was still covered in smoking multi-coloured spots. He was due to receive the rest of the injections the following week, but if they were under Fidelius as Albus suggested they should be, then they wouldn’t be able to go anywhere, nor could the Healers come to them. 

“Can’t we wait, just until after next week?” she asked, looking up at James again. 

“Unfortunately, my dear, Voldemort might not wait that long,” said Albus Dumbledore, and Lily jumped. She’d almost forgotten they were in the Headmaster’s office. 

James laid a hand on Harry’s head. “It’s the best thing to do for _him_ ,” he said, gently. 

“But—” Lily began, although one look at the determined look in her husband’s eyes – and the implacable one in Albus’ – caused her words to dry up in her throat. Feeling her own eyes begin to sting with tears, she dropped her gaze to the most precious thing in her world. 

She gave a short nod. “Fine,” she agreed, huskily. “For Harry. To keep him safe.”

* * *

_November, 1994_  
The roar of the nesting Hungarian Horntail almost blew Harry Potter over backwards, and he instantly broke into a sweat from the heat of it. He raised his wand, opening his mouth to call out the summoning spell for his broomstick—

—when his gaze caught the dragon’s. 

Instantly, he forgot whatever it was he’d been about to do. The dragon roared again, but somehow, it sounded less sure of itself this time. Quite how Harry could tell the difference, he didn’t know, since the decibel level hadn’t dropped in any noticeable manner. 

The crowd began murmuring as Harry continued to stand there. The buzz swept around the arena, and the dragon tilted its head, curiously. Then it drew its wings in, and lowered its head so that it was level with Harry. 

Large, golden eyes gazed at him, almost as tall as he was, the pupil long and oval shaped, like a cat’s. The dragon took a deep breath in – which almost pulled Harry forwards into her snout – and then, amazingly, began to _croon_ at him. 

The most shocking thing, though, was that Harry began to croon _back_. 

The strange sensation bubbled up from his chest to his throat, and he was almost physically incapable of keeping it in. Refusing to open his mouth, it hummed deep in his bones, instead, until he felt as though he’d been struck over the head with a giant tuning fork. When it finally forced its way through his teeth, it came out as a deep sound that was almost a purr. 

The dragon’s sound shifted, one minute lower than Harry’s, the next so high that he could barely hear it. He definitely felt it, though, and threw out a hand for balance. 

His hand landed on the Horntail’s snout – and the world disappeared in a sheet of flames.

* * *

“Something is wrong,” Severus Snape muttered under his breath to Albus Dumbledore. His gaze was fixed on the staring contest that was happening at the bottom of the arena, between a fifty-ton beast and a boy that wasn’t even the tallest among his year-mates. 

“I’m sure Harry has things under control,” Albus said, but the strain in his voice informed Severus that he wasn’t as sanguine as he was trying to sound. Perhaps he was finally reconsidering the wisdom of allowing Potter to compete in the Tournament, Severus thought. Yes, the Ministry had claimed it was an unbreakable magical contract, but the boy was still underage, and under the Headmaster’s de facto guardianship during the school year. If he had firmly put his foot down, then Potter would not have been able to compete. 

The crowd around them fell silent as an unexpected noise began emanating from where Potter stood. 

“Is he . . . _humming_?” asked Severus, incredulously. 

“Oh . . . dear,” Albus said, faintly. 

Severus’ gaze snapped to him. “What?” he demanded. “What is it? You’ve thought of something.” 

Albus didn’t appear to be listening to him. “There are rumours,” he whispered, and Severus couldn’t tell if the Headmaster was talking to himself or to Severus. “I thought they were legends, or mistranslations . . . I never thought . . . I never _dreamed_ —” 

“Albus, what are you talking about?” Minerva McGonagall hissed from the other side of him. “What is happening to Harry?” 

“Never mind that; we need to evacuate the stadium!” Albus suddenly said, abruptly standing. He raised his wand and shot red sparks from it. “ _Students,_ ” his voice boomed out in a wandlessly cast Sonorous, “ _please make your way back to the castle as quickly as possible, in an orderly fashion._ ” 

“I say, Albus, old boy, what are you playing at?” Ludo Bagman piped up from where he was commentating from several rows away. “The round hasn’t finished yet!” 

“Everyone must leave – _now_!” Albus insisted, turning to face the Ministry worker. “Before—” 

Whatever he was going to say was cut off by a _whoosh_ from the arena floor. Screams rose into the air, as Harry Potter was engulfed by flames. Students began scrambling for the ends of the rows, and the staff shot to their feet. 

“—that happens,” Albus finished saying with a sigh. 

Giving the Headmaster identical looks that promised they _would_ get answers from him later, Severus and Minerva turned their attention to herding the panicking students away from the arena. 

“Professor! Professor!” A wildly waving arm caught Severus’ attention. 

One of what looked like his first years had apparently been trampled in the rush to escape from the lower level seats that had been close to Potter, and therefore closest to the flames. One of his prefects was leaning over the girl, while another signalled for him. 

Muttering uncomplimentary things under his breath about Potters who just _had_ to cause problems, Severus hurried down to his Slytherins. Shooing aside the prefect, he bent over the girl himself. 

“I think my ankle’s broken,” she informed him, tearfully. Clutching the appendage in question, Severus could see she was right; her foot was twisted at an unnatural angle, and it had already started to swell up. Casting a quick, sweeping glance over their surroundings, Severus saw what had obviously happened. The girl had caught her foot on one of the benches as she’d been knocked flying. Swept up in the crush, she’d been unable to free herself before being pushed heavily in the other direction. 

Casting a quick Ferula to splint the ankle, Severus gestured for the prefects to help the girl up. “Take her straight to the Hospital Wing,” he instructed them. “Madam Pomfrey will be able to fix it.” 

“Yes, sir,” both prefects murmured at the same time. Supporting an arm each over their shoulders, they helped the first year to hobble to the end of the row. 

Looking round for any other students that might need help, Severus caught sight of Potter again. The flames had died down; in fact, they appeared to be sinking _into_ Potter. 

“Potter!” he shouted. He wasn’t certain what he could do – the boy had likely been burnt to a crisp by now – but much as he disliked the brat, Potter was still a student. Mentally reviewing the spells he knew that could affect a fully grown dragon, which was a woefully short list, he swung himself over the low wall that separated the seating from the rest of the arena. 

The Horntail glanced sideways at him and made a strange rumbling hiss. Ignoring the obvious warning it was giving him, Severus eased his way round until he was closer to Potter than the dragon. 

“Potter!” he called, softly. “Can you hear me?” 

The remaining flames disappeared with a sucking noise, and Potter collapsed bonelessly to the ground. Keeping his wand trained on the dragon’s eyes, Severus knelt beside the boy’s head. “Potter?” he queried. “How badly are you hurt?” 

There was another long, drawn out hiss. But this one wasn’t coming from the Horntail in front of Severus. Instead, it was coming from beside him. 

Horrified, Severus took his eyes off the creature in front of him to look down at Potter. Faceted green eyes gleamed up at him, surrounded by shimmering scales of blue and cream that followed the line of the boy’s cheekbones, as a long forked tongue flickered out of Potter’s mouth to taste the air. 

“Oh, Merlin,” said Severus, faintly.

* * *

Flickering his tongue out again, he tried to decide if the tall, black shape was prey or not. It didn’t smell as though it had teeth and claws, but it didn’t smell of fear, either, which it should do, he thought, if it was prey. 

Then again, maybe it didn’t _know_ it was prey. 

_That could be fun,_ he thought, _chasing it until it stinks of fear. Meat should be properly seasoned, after all._ A low, pleased growl began to build in his chest. The black shape made noises, its tone rising and falling. Apparently, it was trying to communicate with him. _How ridiculous,_ he thought, and gave a snort of disdain. 

To his surprise, instead of the great cloud of smoke he’d intended to cover the black shape in, he produced nothing. Snorting a second time, he gave a bellow of alarm when there was still no smoke. Beginning to panic, he prepared to rear up and strike down the black shape, who had obviously done something to him if he’d lost his smoke. 

The black shape made an impatient movement, just as a burbling rumble came from the adult female beside him. Looking up at her – _why did she seem so much BIGGER than him?_ – he let out a roar of warning. _Get back! Danger!_

Instead of fleeing in terror, or preparing to fight, however, the female just uttered a gusty sigh that caused the black shape to waver backwards, and then lowered her head to rest on the ground. She blinked calmly, almost sleepily, at him, and made an encouraging purring noise. 

He had no idea what was happening, but this was wrong, all wrong! Looking up at the black shape again, he growled, warningly. This was the shape’s doing, he knew it. 

_God damn it! POTTER!!_

The words appeared abruptly in his head. They were strangely soundless, as though they’d bypassed his ears to land straight in his brain. They also made a curious sense now. Potter – wasn’t that him? 

Abruptly, Harry’s memories slammed back into him, and he groaned, closing his eyes against the headache that flared to painful life. 

“Potter?” said a voice cautiously from beside him. “Are you aware of me now?” 

Harry cautiously opened one eye enough to squint through it. “Professor Snape?” he managed to croak out. “Wha . . . What happened?” 

“The Headmaster will explain everything,” the Potions Master said, then muttered under his breath, “Hopefully.” Still keeping the Hungarian Horntail in his view, Snape knelt beside him and rummaged through his robe pockets. “Here,” he said, finally, pulling a tall, slim vial out of an inner pocket that didn’t look big enough to hold a Knut, let alone anything else. Easily pulling the cork out, Snape handed the vial over. 

It was filled with a watery-looking liquid that was an obnoxious yellow colour. Closing his eye again as he brought it up to his mouth, Harry very carefully did not think about what it closely resembled. He was quite relieved when it actually turned out to taste like thick strawberry milkshake. 

“What was it for?” he finally thought to ask, holding out the vial again. 

“It’s a bit late to be asking that, Potter,” said Snape, briskly nipping the vial out of his hand. “For all you know, I could have just poisoned you.” There was a moment of silence as Harry contemplated that, then Snape sighed. “No, it _wasn’t_ poison, Potter,” he said, in a very long-suffering tone. “It was to heal any internal burns those flames may have given you. Although judging by the look of you, I think your – how did Minerva put it in your first year? Oh, yes – your _sheer, dumb luck_ has struck again.” 

“The look of me?” Harry brought his hand up and began patting his face, as though he’d be able to tell what was wrong. “Why, what’s wrong with me?” His fingers suddenly ran over something smooth, just under his left eye. “Sir?” Harry squeaked. “What is _that_?” 

“That would be your new facial adornment,” said Snape, dryly. Harry’s eyes flew open, although he had to shut them again almost instantly. “I wouldn’t worry about it for the moment, Potter,” the professor continued. “It’s obviously not hurting you and, with any luck, Madam Pomfrey will be able to reverse it as soon as we get you up there.” 

There was a flurry of movement beside him, and Harry slid one eye open enough to see that Snape had stood up and was busy conjuring a stretcher. A huff of warm air from the female dragon suddenly recalled him to where he was and what he’d been doing. 

“Um, sir?” he asked, hesitantly. “What about the Tournament? I was supposed to get the golden egg . . .” 

Snape looked down at him, consideringly. “You could very well have grounds for removing yourself from the Tournament,” he said, eventually. “As for the egg—” He glanced around, then raised his wand again. “ _Accio_ golden egg!” he ordered. 

The golden egg wriggled free from where it had been resting in the middle of the dragon’s real eggs, and the Horntail gave a puzzled roar as it flew past her snout. Snape caught it, and then casually dropped it onto Harry’s chest. 

“Don’t lose it,” he instructed, as Harry’s hands flew up to clutch it tightly. He turned to the Horntail and stared intently into its eyes. “There; your clutch is safe,” he said. “You can return to your nest.” With that, he turned his attention back to Harry, preparing to lift him onto the stretcher. 

Harry felt himself begin to rise into the air, and then things suddenly turned into a flurry of movement. The dragon had shot upright, and was still moving, and Harry was falling again, and Snape was breathlessly cursing, and there was a glint of silver . . . 

And then the dragon was still again, watching them, and Snape’s blood was dripping onto the arena floor.

* * *

“Blast it!” Severus hissed, cradling his now wounded arm to his chest. _Damn dragon; what in Merlin’s name is it playing at?_

The dragon gave a pleased croon, and then turned and made her way back to her eggs. 

“Sir?” Potter groaned, and Severus looked down at him. “What just happened?” 

“Apparently the dragon thought it would be fun to try and skewer me,” replied Severus. He gingerly examined his arm. It was bleeding heavily but sluggishly, although at least the dratted scaly beast appeared to have missed all the important blood vessels and nerves. It would scar, but he didn’t think he’d lose any use of it. Unfortunately, it was his dominant right arm, so he wouldn’t be doing any wand work for the next little while until he saw Madam Pomfrey. 

Movement caught his eye, and he realised that the Dragon Keepers were creeping into the arena, hoping to corral the Horntail again. One of them was making their way towards where Severus and Potter were. 

“Professor!” the man hissed as soon as he was close enough, and Severus realised, belatedly, that it was Charlie Weasley. “Are you and Harry okay?” 

Severus snorted. “That’s a relative term, but at least we’re not dying,” he said. 

“Then we have to leave. Now,” said Weasley, pointedly. 

Severus cast an equally pointed look at his mangled arm. “I’m afraid someone else will have to do the heavy lifting where Potter’s concerned,” he said. 

Casting a quick look at where his colleagues were beginning to conjure chains to secure the dragon, Weasley hurriedly straightened Potter out from where he and the stretcher had fallen when the dragon’s attack had caused Severus to lose control of his spell. Abruptly, Weasley paused, and blinked several times. 

“Er, what happened to Harry?” he asked, looking back up at Severus. 

Severus scowled at him. “I don’t know,” he admitted through gritted teeth. 

“I wish someone would tell _me_ what’s happened to me,” Potter complained, as Weasley finally got the boy onto the stretcher. 

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Weasley said, patting the boy gingerly on the shoulder. “I’m sure Madam Pomfrey will get it fixed in no time.” An angry roar made him look over his shoulder. “Er, although perhaps we’d better move before something happens she _can’t_ fix.” 

“What’s happening?!” Potter demanded and then added, with a small huff of annoyance, “I wish I didn’t have to keep _saying_ that!” 

“Unsurprisingly, your dragon objects to being chained down,” Severus informed him. 

“’S not my dragon,” retorted Potter, but then he paused, and screwed up his face in puzzlement. “Hang on; I think I can _hear_ her—” 

Severus rolled his eyes, as Weasley began looking worried. “Perhaps it might be best if we got Potter into the castle,” he said to Weasley. “ _Now,_ ” he added, when Weasley didn’t show any signs of movement. 

Weasley jumped, and almost dumped Potter off the stretcher. “Oh! Sorry, Harry,” he apologised, hurriedly grabbing at the boy. 

“I think I’d be better off walking,” Potter grumbled. 

_At this rate, he’ll have to,_ Severus thought. Surprisingly, though, they managed to get to the arena entrance without any more mishaps, and promptly ran into a group of Gryffindors – because only Gryffindors were idiotic enough to stand outside an arena when there was a _dragon_ on the loose and something strange was going on. 

“What are you all doing here?” he barked at them. “The Headmaster told everyone to return to the castle.” 

“We just wanted to make sure Harry was okay,” one boy piped up, flushing bright red as Severus’ gaze narrowed on him. The boy took a hasty step back, trying to hide behind his friend. 

Potter lifted a hand from where he’d been still clutching the golden egg and gave a limpid wave. “’m fine,” he said, although his voice was beginning to slur. 

“Back to the castle, now,” ordered Severus, glaring at the group. “Before I start taking points and handing out detentions.” Grumbling, the Gryffindors turned and began trudging their way back to the castle. 

Albus was waiting in the Entrance Hall for them, and he hurried over as soon as he saw the little procession. He looked even more worried once he realised that Severus’ arm was covered in blood. “Is Harry hurt?” was the first thing out of his mouth. 

Severus scowled deeply at the old man. How typical that he was covered in blood and Albus apparently naturally thought it was _Potter’s_ blood, he thought. The rest of them could go hang, as long as the Golden Boy was all right. 

“ _Potter_ is fine,” he said, bitterly. “If you will excuse me, I will finish escorting him to Madam Pomfrey.” 

“Oh, now, Severus, I didn’t mean—” Albus began, but he trailed off when he tried to touch Severus’ arm and Severus flinched away from him. “Severus?” he asked in alarm. “Are _you_ hurt?” 

“I will survive,” was all Severus would say. “Don’t I always?” And he stalked off towards the Hospital Wing after Potter’s stretcher, leaving Albus behind in the Entrance Hall. He did not look back to see Albus’ expression.

* * *

“I told Albus it was a bad idea to hold this Tournament again,” Harry heard somebody tutting as he was carried through the Hospital Wing doors. “Dragons! I’d like to meet whoever thought _that_ was a good idea! And it’s only the start!” 

The unimpressed person turned out to be Madam Pomfrey, he discovered as he was carefully laid on an empty bed. Looking up at the ceiling, he could tell that it wasn’t his usual bed – and then he flushed at the realisation that he was in the Hospital Wing often enough to even _have_ a usual bed. 

Lifting his head up, Harry strained to look around to see who else had been injured. There really weren’t very many others, and the injuries he could see looked minor. 

“And what’s the matter with you this time, Mr Potter?” Madam Pomfrey asked as she approached his bedside. Reaching his side, she looked down at him and then blinked. “Good heavens,” she said, faintly. 

Harry scowled up at the medi-witch. He supposed he was reasonably fond of her, if pressed on the matter, but he was getting extremely fed up with that reaction from everybody. 

Madam Pomfrey shook her head, and waved her wand over him in long, complicated patterns that made Harry dizzy trying to follow them. “Hmm,” she hummed, and began a new set. This one caused a faint trail of light the colour of burnished gold to emerge from her wand, and Harry found himself raising a hand to try and catch the light. 

“Is he okay?” Charlie Weasley asked from the bottom of the bed, and Harry jumped, because he’d forgotten the redheaded man was there. “Only, Mum’s likely throwing a fit right now . . .” 

Harry felt a flash of panic go through him. _Mrs Weasley and Bill had been in the audience!_ He abruptly craned his neck, trying to see around Madam Pomfrey to check whether his friend’s family were among the injured people sitting on the other beds. “Are they okay?” he asked, frantically, turning back to Charlie. “They weren’t injured, were they? Or Hermione?” 

“Harry, calm down; they’re fine,” Charlie said, patting him on the foot reassuringly. “They’re just concerned about _you_.” 

“I’m fine,” Harry protested automatically, then looked up at Madam Pomfrey. “Aren’t I?” 

Madam Pomfrey made a strange gesture with her head, as though she wasn’t quite sure whether to nod or shake her head. “I think the Headmaster would be better explaining,” she said. “I suspect he knows more about this than I do.” 

“Whether he will actually explain it is a different matter,” said Snape from the doorway. Harry craned his neck again. The Potions Master was cradling his arm to his chest still, although it didn’t appear to be bleeding anymore. He also looked thoroughly disgruntled. After the events of the past few minutes, Harry decided he couldn’t blame him. In fact, he suspected there would be a similar expression on his own face if someone didn’t tell him _something_ soon. 

“Now, Severus,” Madam Pomfrey began, then actually caught sight of him. “Gracious! Sit down at once!” she ordered, bustling over and chivvying the man towards another empty bed. Harry bit his tongue, trying not to laugh at the sour look Snape gave the medi-witch. “What happened?” she asked, gingerly extracting his arm from the sleeve of his teaching robes. 

She accomplished this by cutting the sleeve off. Snape looked even less impressed with this. 

“Potter’s dragon happened,” he said, scowling down at his bare arm before turning the expression onto Madam Pomfrey. “You didn’t have to cut that off; this was an almost new set of robes!” 

“Then you shouldn’t have been wearing them to watch the Tournament, should you?” Madam Pomfrey retorted. 

“Next time, I’ll make sure I wear my rattiest set,” said Snape, dryly. 

“Next time?” the medi-witch parroted, as if the very idea were unthinkable. “I sincerely hope there won’t _be_ a next time!” She waved her wand over Snape’s arm, and the tension suddenly went out of his shoulders. Another wave had a large vial filled with a green paste floating across the room to her. “Here,” she said, holding her hand out to neatly catch the vial and then passing it straight to Snape. “I’m sure you can apply this yourself.” 

Snape took it from her, and struggled for a moment to remove the cork. “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Madam Pomfrey tutted, and took the vial back, easily uncorking it. Snape gave her a mild glare before taking the vial once again and bringing it up to his nose to sniff. “I don’t know what you’re implying, Severus Snape, but that’s _your_ potion!” Madam Pomfrey hissed indignantly at him. 

“Just checking to ensure it hasn’t gone off,” he replied, blandly, and tilted the vial over the cut on his arm. Madam Pomfrey gave a huff of annoyance, and turned back to Harry. 

“You don’t appear to be injured, Mr Potter,” she informed him. “But until we know how you’ve been affected by today’s events, then you should remain here.” 

“I’d better go and let Mum know,” said Charlie, awkwardly. “Before she comes storming in here, too.” And he was gone before Harry could either thank him or say goodbye. 

“If I’m not injured, can I at least go to the bathroom?” Harry asked. 

Madam Pomfrey considered this, then hit him with some kind of spell before he realised she’d even raised her wand again. “There,” she said, sounding satisfied. “I’ve put a monitoring spell on you; now you can go.” 

Harry darted off the bed before she could change her mind. He saw Snape smirk out of the corner of his eye as he passed, but he wasn’t rushing for the reason the Potions Master obviously thought he was. 

Once inside the bathroom, with the door safely shut and locked, Harry took a deep breath, and turned to face the mirror on the wall. 

He’d half expected to find himself looking as though he had a bad sunburn, or even first degree burns, but his skin looked as normally pale as ever. 

What _wasn’t_ normal were his eyes, and the swath of blue and cream scales that ran along his cheekbones and framed his eyes. 

Harry gaped at himself, and then something in his open mouth caught his eye. Puzzled, he leaned closer to the mirror, squinting, and then got the shock of his life when a _forked tongue_ flickered out of his mouth. It hit the mirror, and he shivered as the taste of cold metal spread through him. 

_What HAPPENED to me?!_ Harry thought, desperately, clutching at the sink to stay upright. He began frantically tearing at the Tournament robes he’d been wearing, wanting to see if there were any other changes he should know about. 

Another streak of scales ran along his collarbones, and scales with an almost opalescent sheen ran down his chest so that it looked like he was wearing a strange form of body armour. 

“Bloody hell,” Harry whispered, borrowing Ron’s favourite phrase. Staring at his changed self in the mirror, he began to hyperventilate. Oh, God, he was really a freak now! He could just imagine the _looks_ and the _whispers_ and the _sneers_ that everyone would give him now. And the Dursleys! They’d always claimed he was a freak, and now he had proof of it. There would be no hiding this from them if it couldn’t be fixed. 

An imperious knock on the door jolted him out of his impending panic attack. “Potter!” Snape’s voice came through the wooden barrier. “Madam Pomfrey requires that I check on you. Open this door at once!” 

Still breathing much too fast and harshly, Harry groped for the lock on the door. Snape gazed down at him impassively when he finally managed to get the door open. His eyes flicked over Harry once, but other than that, he showed no reaction at all. 

“Apparently your heart rate is getting too high,” Snape informed him. 

“I, er—” Harry gestured weakly at himself. 

With an annoyed huff, Snape gripped him by the shoulder and steered him back to his bed. “He needs a Calming Draught,” the Potions Master said to Madam Pomfrey. “He was looking at his new changes.” 

“Hmm.” Madam Pomfrey gave Harry a disapproving look. “I would have preferred he waited, but I suppose we can’t blame him.” 

Snape also gave Harry a look, one that said that _he_ could blame Harry perfectly well. “Will the Headmaster be coming to visit anytime soon?” he enquired of Madam Pomfrey. 

“He’s been settling the students and soothing Ludo and Barty,” she said. 

Sitting on the bed again, it took Harry a moment to realise that the medi-witch was talking about Ludo Bagman and Barty Crouch, the Ministry people overseeing the Tournament. Given the shambles their international event had just become, he supposed he could see that Professor Dumbledore should be busy with them. He just wished somebody could explain what was happening to _him_. 

Almost as though talking about him had literally conjured him, the Hospital Wing doors opened to admit the Headmaster. The elderly wizard beamed at Harry as he came to a stop at the end of Harry’s bed. 

“I’m glad to see you look well, my boy,” he said, cheerfully, then looked at Snape. “And it’s good to see that Poppy’s been able to fix you up,” he added. 

Snape just frowned, and very gingerly folded his arms over his chest, ensuring that the paste-covered one was on top. 

“Sir . . . _what happened to me_?” Harry blurted, unable to bear any more small talk. 

Dumbledore sighed, and absently conjured a large, striped, squashy armchair. He sank into it with a little groan. “I’m afraid,” he said, heavily, “that it’s all my fault.” 

Harry, Snape and Madam Pomfrey all gaped at him. 

“There is – or was – a race of people called _Dragoonal_ ,” Dumbledore began. “They were dragon-shifters. They intermingled with humans, both magic and Muggle, centuries ago, and their lines usually bred true – the resulting children were always Dragoonal from birth. Usually the children were incredibly healthy, but they had one great downfall – Dragon Pox. 

“The Dragon Pox vaccine was a great boon to them, as the disease killed thousands of them every year, and their numbers were dwindling; which was why they had begun intermingling, in an effort to strengthen their lines with new blood. 

“Around that time, Dragoonal children who should have presented as dragons suddenly . . . didn’t. Any draconic traits they may have had disappeared, and no new ones presented. It was a huge blow for the race, and today they’ve all but died out, with only a few scattered colonies in the remotest places in the world they can find.” 

“As interesting as this history lesson is,” Snape drawled, “what does this have to do with Potter?” 

“Those who studied history, and the Dragoonal, more closely than I theorised that the vaccine to prevent Dragon Pox also prevented the draconic nature from emerging. Unfortunately, their work was scorned, and their research destroyed. A few scattered scraps here and there were all that remained. 

“When your parents went into hiding,” Dumbledore continued, looking straight at Harry, “you were in the middle of your vaccination for Dragon Pox. You were given the first set of inoculations, but not the second.” 

Madam Pomfrey and Snape both made noises of startled disbelief, but Harry couldn’t look away from the Headmaster’s gaze. 

“You think it’s true,” he whispered, his fingers clutching the bedclothes underneath him. “You think this vaccine prevented these . . .” 

“Dragoonal,” said Dumbledore, and he looked solemn. “And yes, I do, Harry. For nothing else could explain why you suddenly have draconic traits.” 

“But—” Harry’s voice trailed off as he tried to wrap his mind around this. “Does that mean that my parents were . . . ?” Snape made another strangled sound. 

“Not your mother,” Dumbledore assured them both. “But your father – yes, I believe that if he hadn’t been given the vaccination, he, too, would have eventually presented as a Dragoonal.” 

Harry looked down at his hands, and caught sight of the scales covering his chest and stomach. He glanced back up at Dumbledore. “So if I had the second set now, would it reverse this?” he asked, tipping his chin down at himself. 

Madam Pomfrey was already shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Mr Potter,” she said. “The Dragon Pox vaccination can only be given to young children. It’s why none of the Muggleborns have it – it wouldn’t do them any good.” 

“Oh,” Harry mouthed, and closed his eyes, hopelessly. “Isn’t there _anything_ that will change me back?” he asked. 

The ensuing silence was not encouraging. 

“We can look into it, my boy, but I’m afraid for the meantime, you will have to learn to live with it,” Dumbledore said. He leaned forward and patted Harry’s knee in what was supposed to be a comforting manner but just felt vaguely patronising instead. “And who knows, you may come to enjoy your new traits,” he added. 

Harry opened his eyes to give the Headmaster a withering look. “Great,” he scoffed. “Yet _another_ reason for people to gossip about me. As if they didn’t have enough already.” 

“Mind your tone, Potter,” Snape warned. 

Harry bit his lip to stop himself saying something that would _really_ get him into trouble, and turned away, flinging himself down to hide his face in the pillow. 

Sometimes, he really hated his life.

* * *

Once it became clear that Potter wasn’t going to look up from his sulk, Albus wearily stood, Banished the armchair, and departed from the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey hurried after him and, after a brief glare at Potter that was more automatic than genuine, Severus followed them out, too. 

“—else can we expect?” Poppy was asking when he caught up to them. 

Albus sighed. “I’m afraid I do not know,” he said. “Harry may present any draconic trait. It is simply a case of wait and see.” 

“Albus!” Severus protested. “We can’t have Potter loose in classes if we don’t know what to expect! Or have you forgotten that _breathing fire_ is what dragons are known for?” 

“Be reasonable, Severus,” said Albus. “We can’t just stick him in a room somewhere until we’re sure; he could end up there for years, terrified of a trait that isn’t going to manifest.” 

“Well, he can’t be treated as a _normal_ student,” grumbled Severus. “He certainly can’t be allowed in Potions class anymore.” 

“I will not allow you to persecute Harry over this,” said Albus, sternly. 

Severus rolled his eyes. “Albus, in case you’ve forgotten, some of the potions the fourth years are doing include _gold_ as an ingredient. There are also ones that wouldn’t take too kindly to suddenly being set on fire. Unless you _want_ to endanger all the _other_ students we have?” He raised an eyebrow, pointedly. 

“I believe that Mr Potter may already have the urge for gold,” Poppy added. “One of the spells I used on him produces gold light, and he was trying to capture it.” 

“He’d better not go to Gringotts any time soon,” said Severus, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “Otherwise he may not come back out.” 

Albus sighed again, and his shoulders slumped. “Yes, very well, I see your point,” he agreed. “Harry will have to have private Potions theory tuition, I suppose.” 

“It would probably be best if all the teachers are warned not to surprise Mr Potter,” suggested Poppy. “I believe a couple of dragon breeds spit acid when under attack.” 

“And nothing gold,” Severus added. He suddenly paused. “You may not want Potter in Care of Magical Creatures, either. Especially if he could be hungry.” 

“Severus!” Albus and Poppy protested at the same time. 

The Potions Master rolled his eyes in exasperation. “He saw _me_ as prey,” he informed them. “Anything smaller may not be so lucky if he is triggered.” 

“I suppose Harry’s entire schedule needs to be looked at,” Albus admitted, finally. “I will speak to Minerva about it.” He sighed again and closed his eyes, looking more tired than Severus had seen him look since the Dark Lord had been defeated thirteen years before. 

“You said . . .” Severus began, slowly. “You said that this was your fault?” 

Albus nodded. “As I told Harry, he was in the middle of his vaccinations when I insisted that James and Lily go into hiding immediately. Lily wanted to wait; she asked that we wait just one more week, but I was convinced that Voldemort could attack at any moment, and I persuaded James that it was best to disappear right then, before Voldemort seriously came looking for them. He convinced Lily that it was safer for Harry for them to go immediately.” 

Poppy and Severus glanced at each other. “I don’t think you can be entirely blamed, Albus,” Poppy said, finally, soothingly. “After all, it’s not as if you knew this could happen.” 

“And it’s not as if you purposely had them bring dragons here and then entered Potter into the Tournament,” added Severus. 

“No, I suppose I didn’t,” Albus said, but he still didn’t look entirely convinced. “I shall go and collect Minerva, see what she says about what we should do with Harry, then perhaps do a bit of research.” 

“As will I,” Poppy assured him, before turning to re-enter her domain. 

“I will begin researching a potion that could repress Potter’s dragon tendencies,” Severus offered. “Certain things may not be covered, but certainly any desire to spit acid or breathe fire can be shut down.” 

Albus nodded at him. “Thank you, Severus,” he said, and gripped the Potions Master’s shoulder for a brief moment. 

Once he was alone in the corridor, Severus considered the closed doors of the Hospital Wing, thoughtfully. He had known that promising to protect the son of his dearly departed friend could be dangerous, what with all the Death Eaters still on the loose and Albus’ oft-professed belief that the Dark Lord wasn’t as gone as everyone would like to believe, but never in his wildest dreams – or perhaps _nightmares_ was the better word – would he have ever thought he’d need to protect the boy from something like _this_. 

Not that he knew how he _could_ protect the boy. Potter’s new facial adornments would be impossible to hide; if they were anything like an actual dragon, then they wouldn’t hold spells at all. That alone, never mind whatever else might happen, would make Potter a target. 

It was a shame, he thought, that so many people had seen the basics of what had happened. Otherwise they could have just Obliviated Potter.

* * *

A week later, Harry was still stuck in the private room they’d given him just off the Hospital Wing. Aside from the professors who came to give him his make-up work, or Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape who came to poke and prod at him, Hermione was the only person allowed in, and Harry was slowly going out of his mind with boredom. 

It was so bad that it had gotten to the point where he pounced eagerly on his schoolwork as soon as the teachers dropped it off. Hermione, at least, was pleased with that, but it tended to lead to long, rambling discussions that very quickly went over Harry’s head. 

Unfortunately, Harry was not allowed out yet, as they’d discovered – thanks to Peeves – that he did indeed now spit acid when startled. Worse, he also had a tendency to immediately spit flames after it, usually causing a massive fireball. After the first time it had happened, Peeves had refused to attempt any more experiments until the Bloody Baron ordered him to help. Apparently the poltergeist didn’t appreciate being coated in acidic flames, even if he was already dead and couldn’t feel it. 

He’d also discovered, to his great alarm, that his ‘inner dragon’ was apparently very possessive. Over Professor Snape, of all people! Harry had been horrified the day he’d realised that he wanted to toss the Potions Master to the floor and roll all over him to remove the _stink_ attached to the man’s robes. Flustered and stammering, he’d hastily retreated into a corner, leaving Snape puzzled. 

On the whole, Harry thought comments about his strange behaviour were better than what Snape would have said if Harry had _acted_ on his bizarre impulse. 

Hermione had been researching everything about dragons that she could get her hands on. When Harry had hesitantly broached the subject of his sudden aversion to particular smells, she’d gotten the completely wrong end of the stick and thought that Harry was trying to say he didn’t like the smells on _her_. After being mildly insulted because she thought he was questioning her hygiene, she suddenly became very flustered herself, and there followed the longest five minutes of Harry’s life _ever_ , as she tried to gently let him down, and he tried to work past his confusion and then his horror at what his friend thought he was trying to say. 

He hadn’t tried to raise the subject again after that. 

Two days after that, Professor Snape finally succeeded in creating a potion that suppressed his fire and acid reflexes. It didn’t completely destroy them – he _could_ still spit flammable acid – but it took him more effort than he could spare in the heat of the moment and made him feel vaguely constipated when he tried. 

The day after _that_ , Harry was finally allowed back into the general student populace. He would have been more thrilled to be finally set free, if almost the entire student body wasn’t giving him a wide berth, or talking in frantic whispers every time they spotted him. 

“Oh, just ignore them, Harry; they’re idiots,” Hermione said, loftily, when yet another group of students scattered in front of them. 

“I’m not contagious, you know!” Harry shouted after the group. They didn’t look reassured. “It’s ridiculous,” he complained to Hermione. 

“I’m sure they’ll get used to it,” she said, comfortingly. “Just like they did in second year when it turned out you could speak Parseltongue.” 

Harry scowled at her. “They thought I was going to try and kill Justin in second year,” he pointed out. 

“But nobody thinks that now, do they?” she responded, tartly. 

“No, now they just think I’m going to breathe _fire_ at them,” he said, wryly. “That’s _so_ much better.” 

“So I take it you’ve not asked anyone to the Yule Ball then?” his friend asked, in a very transparent change of topic that was most unlike her. Harry squinted at her, puzzled. 

“No,” he said, slowly. “Most girls won’t even allow me to get close enough to ask, even if I wanted to.” Not that he did want to; his ‘inner dragon’ seemed to have very strong ideas about who he spoke to and what for, and asking a _girl_ to a _dance_ apparently didn’t meet its approval. 

“So you’ve not asked Cho, then?” Hermione blinked at him. 

Harry blinked back, even more confused. Was Hermione trying to . . . _flirt_ with him?! She was acting in a very un-Hermione-like manner, and her voice had risen slightly. Her eyes suddenly slid to the left, and then shot back to him, and Harry abruptly realised that this was a show for someone else. 

“No, I never got the chance,” he said. 

“That’s a shame; we could have double-dated,” said Hermione, brightly. 

Harry shook his head, confused again. “You’ve been invited?” he checked. “Who was it?” 

“Someone who was _very_ persistent,” his friend said, just as they reached the Fat Lady’s portrait. 

The portrait stared at Harry. “I’m not sure I can let creatures in,” she said, doubtfully. 

“I’m not a creature!” said Harry, insulted. 

“Looks like a dragon to me,” chimed in a man from the next portrait along, leaning over into the Fat Lady’s frame. 

“Quiet, you!” Hermione ordered, glaring at him, before turning back to the Gryffindor guardian. “Pimpernel,” she said, firmly. 

Still looking worried, the portrait nonetheless swung open, and Hermione hustled Harry inside in front of her, not wanting to chance the Fat Lady suddenly locking him out. 

As had become the new norm, conversations stuttered and died as the occupants of the Gryffindor common room caught sight of him. To be fair, it was a bit hard to miss him, as the light from the flames in the fireplace reflected off the scales on his face. 

Biting back the urge to growl at everyone, Harry made his way over to the far corner. It was already relatively empty, and anyone lingering near it sidled away as he approached. If it hadn’t been him it was happening to, it would have been laughable. He felt as though there was a sign over his head, invisible to him, that read _Here be dragon – approach with care._

“Um, Harry?” 

Surprised, Harry looked up to see Ron Weasley standing in front of him. The surprise wasn’t so much that Ron had sneaked up on him, but that Ron was speaking to him at all. They hadn’t exactly been on speaking terms before the whole Tournament debacle. 

“I’ll just – homework,” Hermione muttered, and slid carefully around Ron to disappear off somewhere to give them privacy. Harry sort of wished she’d remained where she was. 

“Ron,” he said, cautiously. 

“Harry, um—” Ron started again, then he paused, chewing on his lower lip for a moment. “Look, mate, I’m sorry!” he blurted out abruptly. “I know I was a prat, but I didn’t realise . . .” 

“Didn’t realise _what_?” Harry asked when the other boy trailed off. 

Ron leaned in closer. “I think someone’s trying to kill you,” he hissed, shooting a suspicious glance over his shoulder at the rest of the room, before turning back to look intently at Harry. 

“What gave you that idea?” Harry asked, sarcastically. “I mean, I thought a Tournament that was discontinued because the death count got too high would be a walk in the park . . .” 

“Alright, I was an idiot,” snapped Ron. “I’m sorry, okay?” 

Harry sat in one of the chairs and studied Ron for a moment. It had hurt when Ron had leapt straight to the conclusion that Harry had entered himself in the Triwizard Tournament, and then hurt even more when he’d refused to accept, or even listen to, Harry’s denials. Hermione’s help and support had been wonderful – he’d never have been able to manage without her – but Ron had been his first friend in the Wizarding world; heck, his first friend _ever_ , and the betrayal had stung. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said, suddenly, and grinned widely at his friend. 

Ron looked a bit taken aback by this, but slowly sat down as well. “So,” he said, drawing out the syllable. “What happened out there?” 

“Dumbledore thinks I’m part Dragoonal,” Harry explained in a whisper, leaning over the table so Ron would hear him better. “Dragon-shifter,” he added, seeing the confusion in Ron’s face. “Apparently the Dragon Pox vaccine prevents any dragon traits from appearing, but because my parents had to go into hiding, I didn’t get the full lot. So when I saw the dragon today—” 

“It brought the traits out,” Ron finished. Harry nodded. His friend might not like school work, but he wasn’t stupid. “Have they found a way to reverse it?” 

Harry shook his head. “Snape has a potion that means I don’t automatically spit fire or acid if someone startles me, but so far, there’s no way to reverse the rest of it.” 

“You can spit _fire_?!” Ron asked, gaping at Harry. He didn’t appear to have heard anything else past that one word. 

“Not when I’m on this potion,” retorted Harry, crossly. He did not need any rumours about that getting out. 

Ron opened his mouth to say something, but was startled into silence by the abrupt reappearance of Hermione. Placing her hands on her hips, she scowled down at them both. “You’re talking,” she observed, the disapproval clear in her tone. “You’re friends again, after everything. Just like that?” 

The two boys looked at each other, and shrugged. 

Hermione gave a growl of frustration. “ _Boys_!” she huffed, annoyed, and flounced off again, leaving Harry and Ron to stare after her in bewilderment.

* * *

“—shame it wasn’t Weasley,” Harry could hear someone that sounded suspiciously like Draco Malfoy saying. “Although if _he_ was a dragon, he’d have to settle for bronze, rather than gold!” Malfoy’s audience howled with laughter. 

Ron flushed as red as his hair – which wasn’t a good look on him – but somehow managed to keep himself silent as he, Harry and Hermione rounded the corner to the Potions classroom. 

As they neared the small group of Slytherins that were standing in front of the wooden door, Harry’s inner dragon suddenly perked up. Something had caught its attention – and not in a good way. Almost before he realised it, Harry was flicking out his forked tongue, scenting the air in a way that he’d managed to avoid doing too much of so far. 

“ _Ewwwww_!” a couple of the Slytherin girls squealed. 

“Really, Potter, keep your appendages to yourself,” Malfoy said, in disgust. “As if it wasn’t bad enough having to look at you anyway.” 

Malfoy’s scent . . . something about it was upsetting the inner dragon. Harry couldn’t understand why. Sure, Malfoy was covered in lotions and scents that turned his stomach now, but taken individually they didn’t _actually_ smell that bad. Except now, they did. 

“So I heard from Professor Snape that we’ll be brewing a potion to get rid of vermin,” Malfoy said to a Slytherin boy that Harry didn’t know. “He says it’s got dragon liver in it, so he’s had to order more than usual just in case the _Gryffindors_ —” His eyes slid sideways to Harry and his friends. “—mess up. I suppose we’d best be careful; it might have belonged to a new found relative of Potter, after all.” The Slytherins sniggered. 

“Ignore him!” Hermione whispered in a sing-song tone. 

Harry gritted his teeth but didn’t rise to Malfoy’s bait. It would be just his luck that as soon as he started something Snape would arrive . . . and it wouldn’t be _Malfoy_ getting into trouble over it. 

“At least he won’t have to worry if his cauldron goes out,” sniggered a blonde girl, who was standing beside Malfoy. Harry thought her name might be Tracy, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. Instead, he was more concerned about the feeling of anger that was bubbling up in his chest. 

Ron and Hermione were giving him strange looks now, and they’d each fastened a hand into his sleeves. “What isssss it?” he hissed at them, and cringed at the drawn out sibilance. 

“Your scales are turning red,” Ron informed him, in a low voice. 

“They are?” Harry asked, alarmed. He raised his hand to his face, to see if he could feel any difference, but aside from possibly feeling slightly warmer, he couldn’t tell a thing. 

“I think your ‘inner dragon’ is trying to come out because it’s angry,” said Hermione, thoughtfully. She paused for a moment, and then giggled. “It’s the Incredible Hulk!” she spluttered. 

“The what?” Ron and Harry chorused, but Hermione was prevented from explaining anything more by the classroom door opening behind the Slytherins. 

“Get in,” barked Snape, glaring at the gathered Gryffindors. “Hurry up; we’ve got a lot to do today—” 

Harry couldn’t help himself; as he scurried past the Potions Master, his tongue flickered out again. Catching the tasted scent that he’d grown so familiar with, something inside him relaxed. 

Unfortunately, any relaxation Snape’s presence may have caused was dissipated by Ron’s dragging him to sit at the very back of the room, and Malfoy’s constant litany of _Professor Snape_ this and _Professor Snape_ that and the _Well done, Malfoy_ s that the professor fed him every so often. 

That _stink_ was back on the professor’s robes again, too, except it was mingling with other smells now, all equally as abhorrent to Harry’s inner dragon. He could feel himself getting tenser and tenser, and the burning sensation in his chest was back. 

“Harry, your scales—!” Hermione hissed at him, halfway through the lesson. But there was nothing Harry could do about that – whatever ‘that’ was. Instead, he blindly reached out for the next ingredient to go in the cauldron. “Harry, no, _watch out_!” Hermione suddenly yelped. 

Instead of whatever Hermione had feared, there was a sudden loud _ssccccrrrrreeeeeeee!_ that left everyone in the room, even Harry, cringing. Startled, Harry looked down at his hand. 

He’d grown _claws_! 

Gaping, he brought his hand up to study it. The claws were growing out of where his fingernails had been just seconds previously. They were a deep grey colour, and were very obviously strong, and very obviously sharp. Just an idle pass had created furrows in the side of the cauldron that were so deep they were a breath away from actually puncturing it. Hermione was hurriedly fetching a spare cauldron from the shelf behind them and transferring Harry’s potion into it. 

“Mr Potter, _what_ is going on?” Snape demanded, suddenly appearing in Harry’s vicinity. 

Harry held out his hand – carefully. “I think I found a new trait,” he said. 

Snape raised his eyebrows as he looked down at the lethally curved claws, then back up at Harry’s face. “Can you retract them, Mr Potter?” he asked. “Otherwise you’ll just have to sit there for the rest of the lesson, which will, of course, earn you a zero for the day.” 

“But—” Harry began, indignantly, waving his hand towards his semi-completed potion. Hermione squealed, and ducked away from him. Harry stopped moving, abashed. “Sorry,” he murmured at her, then concentrated on his hand, imagining his fingernails. 

It was very hard to do so, however, when he could hear Malfoy and his goons snickering at him. After five minutes, Harry could only look up and shake his head. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t get rid of them,” he admitted, feeling himself flush. 

“Hmm.” Snape made a small sound that could have meant ‘ _interesting_ ’, or equally ‘ _stupid boy_ ’. “Then sit down and remain silent, Mr Potter. I will not tolerate any more disruptions from you.” 

“No, sir,” Harry sighed, and sank onto his stool, glumly. _Ruddy inner dragon!_

* * *

Severus made sure to keep an eye on Potter as he finished the lesson, but the boy’s hand remained clawed. He wondered what had prompted that particular trait to emerge. He’d seen the colour change Potter’s scales underwent when he was angry. A useful indicator, although it wasn’t as if Potter had been any good at hiding his expression before now. 

“Professor Snape?” Malfoy’s voice sounded again. “Have I chopped these right, sir?” 

_Oh, Merlin, can’t the boy do anything without checking with me?_ Severus groaned to himself, but he knew full well that the pampered prince reported _everything_ back to his father, so he made an effort to look as pleased as possible as he turned to look at the roots the boy had just chopped up. Technically, he’d chopped them much too harshly, each slice twice as thick as it should have been, and the cuts themselves were ragged, as though the boy’s knife hadn’t been sharpened in a while. 

“Well done, Draco,” he praised anyway, and then made a pretence of hastily turning away to keep an eye on the other students. If he didn’t have to ensure that Malfoy received the grades his father wanted, the Malfoy heir would have been flunked out of Potions before the end of his first year. Whomever Lucius had hired to teach his son had either been detrimentally afraid of Lucius, or had just been an absolute disaster at the subject. 

“Professor, sir?” Malfoy’s voice came _again_ , and Severus was about ready to bang his head against the nearest wall – or better, bang _Malfoy’s_ head – when there came a low, rolling growl, and Malfoy’s cauldron, and the entire work table, was suddenly engulfed in flames. 

Unsurprisingly, Malfoy and Nott, the unfortunate boy sharing his table, shrieked in alarm and dove for cover. So did most of the other students in the room. Severus barely resisted the urge to dive for cover himself, but he was the professor in the room – that meant he had to deal with the crisis. 

Which, in this case, was Potter. Again. 

Briskly waving his wand, Severus conjured foam to snuff out the flames. The table itself, along with everything that had been on it, had melted, rather than burned, which meant Potter’s flame had been more acidic than flammable. 

The emerging Dragoonal was still sitting at his table, but was now looking a bit shocked. Little drops of flame were burning merrily on the table in front of him. “I, er—” he spluttered, his eyes darting to meet Severus’. “Sir, I—” he tried again, but still couldn’t manage to get a full sentence out. 

He suddenly appeared to notice the flames burning a hole through the table in front of him, and he slapped a hand over them, snuffing them out. Interestingly, he didn’t show any signs that it had hurt him to do that. _Does that mean he’s become resistant to all flames, or just his own?_ Severus wondered. 

“How did you do that, Potter?” he asked, folding his arms and forcing himself to sound sterner than he really was. “Did you decide not to take your potion this morning?” 

Slowly, Potter shook his head. “No, sir, I took it,” he replied. “Ron, Neville, Dean and Seamus all saw me.” The four Gryffindors, all still hidden under their tables, nodded frantically. 

“In that case, then, you are obviously developing an immunity to it.” Severus frowned to himself. He hadn’t considered that when inventing this potion, and it didn’t bode well if Potter could overcome it this quickly. “You obviously can’t remain in my class any longer; you’ll kill us all. Go to Madam Pomfrey and explain,” he ordered. 

Strangely, Potter seemed to let out a dejected whine, before resignedly nodding his head and sliding off his stool. He glanced at his friends while picking up his bookbag, but clearly decided against saying anything, as he left the classroom without a word. 

“All right, everybody get back to work,” Severus barked at the rest of them. “Most of you still have potions to brew.” 

Much more subdued than they had been, the fourth years crawled out from their hiding places and began working again. While Theodore Nott and Malfoy were gathering new supplies, Severus wrote a quick note for Albus, and called for a house-elf. Potter couldn’t carry on like that. 

Something had to be done.

* * *

“Are you _sure_ he’s developed an immunity to your potion, Severus?” Albus asked, hopefully, peering over the top of his glasses. 

“Would you like to see the melted heap that used to be one of my work tables?” Severus returned, dryly. “Something must be done. I cannot keep increasing the strength of the potion – it’s impossible to suppress a dragon’s flame, and if this keeps up, then I fear nothing I do will suppress it in Potter, either. Unless he can absolutely control it, then he is a danger to everyone in the castle.” 

Albus sighed, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Frankly, I don’t know where else to even begin looking,” he admitted. “Most of the research on the Dragoonal has been lost over the years.” 

“Then we need to start making some educated guesses,” said Severus. He paused, wondering if this was a good time to mention something _else_ he’d observed. “Albus, what do the legends tell you about Dragoonal . . . relationships?” 

“Relationships? Why?” Albus looked sharply at him. 

“Because,” began Severus, reluctantly, “I believe Potter is experiencing a dragon’s urge to mate.” 

“Oh, dear,” said Albus with a groan. “Are you sure? Harry’s only fourteen—” 

“He has begun acting . . . oddly,” Severus said. “In fact, I believe it’s what prompted the disaster in class today – the mating instinct caused him to lose his temper over someone that he saw as an interloper or a rival.” 

“But didn’t you say that it was Mr Nott and Mr Malfoy’s table that Harry destroyed?” Albus asked. 

Severus nodded. “It was indeed, and I can guess what you’re thinking: that it was just a continuation of Mr Potter’s rivalry with Mr Malfoy. However, this wasn’t the first class they’ve had together since Mr Potter was allowed back into the general student body, and yet nothing like this happened in any other class.” 

“Perhaps it was just a case of Mr Malfoy being more aggravating than usual,” Albus suggested, although not very hopefully. 

Severus let out a bark of laughter. “I don’t think it’s possible for Mr Malfoy to become _more_ aggravating,” he said. “But no, I’m fairly sure that’s not it.” 

The Headmaster sighed, wearily. “Then I suppose I must reach out to the Dragon Reserves for help,” he said. 

“You think they might have information about the Dragoonal?” asked Severus, surprised. 

Albus shook his head. “No, but they should have information about how to suppress the more dangerous traits in newborn dragons,” he explained, pulling open a drawer in his desk and rummaging in it. Despite it being a shallow drawer, his arm disappeared up to the shoulder. “Ah-ha!” he exclaimed, triumphantly, pulling a sheaf of parchment out and sliding the drawer shut again. 

“Newborn?” Severus raised his eyebrows at the Headmaster. “Potter’s fourteen.” 

“But the emerging dragon has been dormant up until now,” Albus pointed out, reaching over the desk for a quill. “And some dragon breeds live for centuries. Whichever way you want to look at it, essentially, it’s a newborn.” 

“Albus, are you suggesting that Potter’s going to gain _other_ physical dragon traits?” Severus asked, slightly horrified. The scales and claws had been bad enough; there were other traits that would cause more problems. Most dragons had wings, some had horns and he knew of at least one that had spikes at the end of their tails – which would be quite something, considering Potter didn’t have a tail. 

Yet. 

“Hmm? Oh . . .” Albus frowned, thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, eventually, “it’s not _likely_.” 

“And just how ‘likely’ was it that Potter would develop claws?” Severus asked, dryly. 

“I see your point, Severus,” said Albus after a pause. He began writing on the parchment, quill scratching as he went. “I should hopefully have preliminary responses from the British reserves by tomorrow—” 

He was interrupted by a loud squawk from Fawkes, as a shadow swooped across the window. “Goodness, that was a close one,” he said, barely even turning his head to look. “Either the Snitch decided to explore, or someone’s being chased by a Bludger.” 

Severus, having had a better view of what had caused the shadow, was sitting stiffly in his chair, his hands clutching the arms. “Albus,” he said, croakily. “I think we may have our answer about other dragon traits presenting. I believe that was Potter that just flew past your window.” 

Albus glanced up at him. “It’s not that unusual,” he said. “Harry _is_ the Gryffindor Seeker, after all . . .” 

“Mm. The problem, Albus,” Severus said, “is that Potter just flew past without a broom.”

* * *

Harry had no idea how it had happened – he hadn’t even known it _could_ happen – but somehow, he was flying. 

Without a broom. 

He, Ron and Hermione had been sitting in the shade of a tree not that far from the side of the lake. Well, actually, he’d been sitting _in_ the tree, as he apparently preferred being off the ground these days. Ron and Hermione had been discussing something underneath him, when a blur of movement had caught his eye. His head spinning round to look, his gaze had locked onto the thing. There was a second of dizzying vertigo as his vision abruptly tunnelled in and focused on the flying thing, and then Harry realised that he was looking at a Snitch. 

He found it much easier to track than he ever had done in the three years he’d played Quidditch. _Chalk up yet another trait,_ he thought, idly. _Superior eyesight. That’ll help against Malfoy._

The Snitch suddenly darted over to his tree, and bounced around the branches. Harry almost twisted himself into a pretzel trying to follow it and, when it sped away, he automatically lunged for it. 

As he was already off balance, unsurprisingly, his sudden movement caused him to lose his footing, and he felt himself slip off the branch he’d been perched on. There was a brief burst of pressure around his shoulder-blades, and before anyone even got the chance to scream, he was suddenly shooting back up into the sky, the muscles in his back tugging strangely. 

Shocked, Harry twisted his head. A pair of enormous _wings_ were protruding from his back, and they were beating strongly, easily propelling him through the air. 

Any further inspection was interrupted by the flash of gold in the corner of his eye. _The Snitch,_ he realised. Before he had a chance to think about it, a delighted sound escaped him and he was diving after the golden ball, his wings tucked in against his back. 

The Snitch seemed to be toying with him, as it darted here, there and everywhere, circling him but never quite getting close enough for him to catch it. Harry ignored the loud shouts of, “Harry! _Harry!_ ” that were coming from Ron and Hermione, too caught up in the thrill of the chase. He _wanted_ that Snitch! 

When he finally caught it – some ten minutes later – he let out a victory bellow, and spiralled triumphantly back towards the ground. 

Quite a crowd had gathered to watch him, and at the very front were Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape. Neither Head of House looked very pleased with him, and even Dumbledore looked a bit worried, although he was beaming at Harry. 

“Mr Potter—” McGonagall began, but the Headmaster spoke over her. 

“That was quite a feat, my boy,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Your next Quidditch match should be very interesting!” 

“Albus!” Snape and McGonagall protested at the same time, then they looked at each other. “Of course Mr Potter cannot continue on the Quidditch team,” McGonagall continued, after a silent conversation with her colleague. “It would be monstrously unfair to the other team, and Mr Potter might accidentally injure someone in his pursuit of the Snitch.” 

“I wouldn’t—!” Harry began, indignantly, but a sudden flash of gold caught his attention, and he promptly forgot what he was arguing about. 

Snape raised an eyebrow at the Headmaster. “You see, Albus?” he said, sliding his wand back up his sleeve. The spark of gold winked out, and Harry shook his head. “Unless you want to go and change every Snitch to something _other_ than gold, then Potter can’t be allowed to play until he gets his traits under control.” He gave a pointed look at Harry, and Harry realised that his wings were still on display. 

“Now, now, I’m sure Harry can manage,” Dumbledore began, but Snape shook his head. 

“And what happens if he sees the other Seeker likely to reach the Snitch before he does?” the Potions Master asked. “What happens if he loses his temper again and spits acid? Or fire? They play on _wooden_ brooms, in case you’ve forgotten,” he added, dryly. 

Harry had the sudden image of himself flying against Cho Chang and spitting fire at her. Horrified, he felt himself go pale. 

“But . . . we’re not even playing this year!” Ron protested from Harry’s other side. 

“And how many times have you been out practising?” Hermione pointed out, folding her arms. “Harry’s dangerous. Do you want to risk getting burnt?” 

“No, of course not,” Ron muttered, mutinously. “But Harry’s my friend; he wouldn’t hurt me!” 

“Not on purpose,” Hermione agreed. “But he doesn’t have a lot of control yet. You saw what happened in Potions.” 

Ron and Harry both shuddered at the same time. “Yeah, suddenly I think I’m okay sitting it out,” Harry said. “But who knows, maybe by the time we can actually play Quidditch again, I’ll have control of it all and it won’t be an issue.” 

“Yeah,” agreed Ron, perking up. “You’ve got a year to work on it, after all.” 

“Perhaps Potter would like to start with getting rid of those wings?” Snape said, pointedly. 

“Um . . .” Harry glanced over his shoulder at the wings. They were a glossy black, although he could see dark green highlights where the light hit them, and they stretched from just above his head down to his ankles. If it wasn’t for the fact that they were made of leather, he thought he’d look like the pictures of angels in one of the books that a young Dudley had scorned. 

Concentrating fiercely on being _land-bound_ , Harry screwed his eyes shut, imagining the wings drawing back into his body. Unfortunately, this worked as well as his attempts to retract his claws had – which was to say, not at all. 

Harry opened his eyes and looked at the professors, sheepishly. “I’ll keep trying,” he promised.

* * *

“Ow!” Harry muttered, hissing as he tried to shake out the pain in his fingers. This was getting ridiculous now. Not only had he _not_ been able to get rid of his wings – although at least the claws had disappeared – but now, a week later, he’d grown horns, too. 

They’d grown alarmingly quickly. Overnight, in fact. He’d just woken up, two days after developing wings, to discover that he had two sets of horns sticking out of his head. One set, in a deep blood red, grew straight out of his temples, lying back against his head. The other set, in such a pale pink that they were almost white, also grew out of his temples, but curved around his ear like a ram’s horns. They were also incredibly sharp, and he kept catching himself on the tip of the horns whenever he raised his hand to his glasses. 

Compared to that, the fact that he’d developed a taste for raw meat coated in spices that were so hot they had a visible heat shimmer seemed almost negligible. 

“I feel like a freak show,” he complained bitterly to Ron and Hermione. 

“But it’s so _interesting_!” Hermione said, brightly. She began leafing through the book she’d taken to carrying everywhere. She paged through it so many times a day that it was beginning to look quite dog-eared, and Harry wasn’t at all sure that Madam Pince, the librarian, would accept it back. “Look, I was trying to find out if the Dragoonal took after specific breeds, and—” 

“Hermione, what does it _matter_ if Harry’s turning into a specific breed of dragon?” Ron interrupted, annoyed. 

“It could give us a clue as to any other traits he might present,” said Hermione, sounding hurt. She closed the book and hugged it to her chest, protectively, as though it might hear Ron’s words and be offended. 

“I don’t think it matters,” Harry said, trying to calm the situation down before tempers flared any more. “After all, they all have the same dangerous stuff – fire, teeth, claws . . .” 

“Teeth!” Ron suddenly burst into giggles. Harry and Hermione stared at him. “Sorry!” he gasped, waving a hand in the air. “I just thought of Harry with huge fangs—” 

“Thanks, Ron,” said Harry, wryly, shaking his head. That’d be just his luck to end up with huge, sharp fangs that didn’t fit in his human mouth. 

_Then again,_ he thought, as the trio suddenly came face to face with Draco Malfoy and his ever present hangers-on, Crabbe and Goyle, _it would certainly be a good way to get rid of Malfoy once and for all._

“Well, well, I see they’ve still not come to cart you off to the Dragon Reserves,” Malfoy sneered, his eyes flickering over Harry’s horns. 

“Shove off, Malfoy!” Ron spat, his fists clenching at his sides. 

Malfoy glanced at Ron. “Then again,” he mused, “I suppose Weasel here could always chop you up for ingredients. Could make enough money to buy himself a new home, perhaps even one with a proper bedroom!” 

“Ron!” Hermione said, sharply, gripping his sleeve tightly, but the low growl that echoed around the hall hadn’t come from the redhead. 

Malfoy went pale, then his face lit up with malicious glee. “Oh, look, have you chosen a mate already?” he crowed. “Bad luck, Granger. Guess you won’t have to cram into the Weasel shack after all. Or are you and Weasel going to share his pet?” 

For an instant, Harry saw red. Almost literally. For once, he could actually _feel_ his body preparing to spit acid. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, but then again, Malfoy wasn’t a pleasant person. 

“ _What_ is going on here?” 

At the sound of the strident voice, Harry’s anger turned to flat-out panic in a split second. _No, oh, no! He can’t have heard. He mustn’t have heard! IT’S NOT TRUE!!_ Vaguely, he could hear Malfoy babbling and whining – “Professor Snape, I was just walking past, when Potter and Weasley tried to _attack_ me!” – but he couldn’t say a word in his own defence. Ron and Hermione’s voices chimed in, indignantly, a buzz of noise in Harry’s head. 

“Potter?” Snape’s voice came cautiously from somewhere above him. 

Somehow, without being aware of it, Harry had collapsed to the floor. He rolled onto his back and tilted his head, exposing his throat. He had to mitigate the expected anger, show that it wasn’t true, he was his, he would be all he ever wanted, he was _sorry_ — 

“Everyone get back to class – _now_!” Snape barked, then he was crouching down beside Harry. “Potter, can you hear me?” 

A purring noise erupted from Harry’s throat, and he wriggled, inching himself that much closer to Snape’s boots. 

“Professor?” Hermione’s voice sounded very timid. “What’s wrong with him?” 

Snape sighed and straightened up. “Nothing is _wrong_ , per se, Miss Granger,” he said. “It’s just another draconic trait presenting itself. If you and Weasley would go and fetch the Headmaster—” 

“And what about me, Professor Snape?” Malfoy’s fawning voice interrupted. 

Harry’s panic instantly switched back into anger with a surge that took him completely by surprise. Before anybody else even realised that he’d stopped purring, Harry was rolling over, pushing himself up so he was crouched on the balls of his feet, fingers lightly pressing on the floor for balance, and a wall of flame was separating Malfoy from the rest of them. 

Squawks of outrage – Malfoy – and dismay – Ron and Hermione – sounded, but Harry was more concerned with keeping the flames going, pushing them carefully outwards so that the would-be interloper was forced further backwards. 

There came a resigned sigh, and then, “Stupefy draconis!” 

And Harry knew no more.

* * *

Severus stood beside the Headmaster as he studied the supine body of Harry Potter through the small window in the door to one of the private rooms in the Hospital Wing. Poppy Pomfrey was inside the room, fussing over the boy, but there really wasn’t much she could do for him. 

“You’re certain?” Albus asked, over his shoulder, not looking away from the window. 

“Positive,” Severus replied. “Potter’s inner dragon is attacking Malfoy because it feels he’s too close to me.” 

“But Harry isn’t aware?” 

“No.” Severus shook his head. “We need to do something, Albus, before he _does_ become aware. Or before Miss Granger figures it out for him.” 

“We could just let nature take its course,” said the Headmaster. 

“Albus!” exclaimed Severus, shocked and horrified. “Potter’s fourteen years old!” 

“Of course, of course,” said Albus, soothingly, as though he’d not just suggested that Severus allow a boy two decades younger and in his care to become attached to him. “Then it appears I only have one option.” 

“You’ve found something that will help?” Severus queried. 

Albus turned to face him, his expression sombre. “I don’t think it will help, so much as . . . suppress,” he said. “The ritual is a combination of Fidelius Charm and Obliviation.” 

Severus was silent for a moment, musing on this. “What of those who have already written to parents?” he asked, finally. Then he frowned. “Actually, why haven’t we seen it in the _Prophet_ already? Rita Skeeter was at the first Task. After all those articles she did on Potter in the run up, surely she wouldn’t have passed up the opportunity to break a story like that one.” 

“I’m afraid Miss Skeeter ran afoul of a new anti-Animagus ward that was placed around the castle just before the Tournament,” Albus admitted, not looking in the least bit contrite over it. “Precautions, you understand, for the foreign dignities.” 

Severus raised his eyebrows. “So Miss Skeeter—” he began. 

“Was safely Obliviated before beginning her sentence in Azkaban,” Albus finished, cheerfully. 

“I see. The question of people outside the castle knowing of this still stands, though.” 

“Walk with me, Severus,” invited Albus, with one last glance into Potter’s private room. Severus obligingly fell into step with the Headmaster as he left the Hospital Wing, heading in the direction of his office. “As it happens,” Albus said, finally, as they reached the Grand Staircase, “nobody outside of the castle knows anything about what happened, other than that Mr Krum won the first round. The Ministry made an . . . agreement with the _Prophet_ – nothing would be written about the Tournament until and unless they gave their approval to it.” 

“And they’re keeping to that?” asked Severus, puzzled, as they reached the gargoyle that guarded Albus’ office. 

“Oh, yes,” Albus said, with a suddenly fierce look that reminded Severus that the man had defeated Grindelwald and was the only one that the Dark Lord feared. “Especially once I pointed out that they’d forced Harry to compete in the first place, even though he’s underage, so it _could_ be considered their fault.” 

“Could be . . .” Severus repeated, then the light dawned. “You’ve not told them about Potter being Dragoonal, have you?” he asked. 

“Acid Pops,” Albus said to the gargoyle, which obligingly leapt aside. “No,” he continued, to Severus, as they stepped onto the spiral staircase and rose upwards. “Although, to be fair, I didn’t _know_ that for certain when I was discussing matters with Ludo and Barty.” 

Severus gave a disbelieving snort. Considering Albus had been the one to begin evacuating the students, right before everything had gone to hell in a hand-basket, then surely even the thickest Ministry worker – and there were plenty of those – could have worked out that Albus had indeed known of the possibility. Although if it made their job easier, he wasn’t going to complain. 

“Sit,” invited Albus as they entered his office. He made his way over to a small bookcase, giving his phoenix an absentminded stroke on his way past, while Severus crossed the room to the Headmaster’s desk, and Banished the armchair that was sitting opposite it, creating a chair that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Malfoys’ dining room. 

Albus had been rummaging through the books on the shelf, and had pulled out a book that just barely filled the palm of his hand. Awkwardly leafing through it, Albus wandered across to join Severus at his desk. 

Finally, he let out a soft hum, and spun the book so that Severus could see it. Squinting, the Potions Master quickly read through the ritual Albus had found. “Phoenix feather, Unicorn tears . . . _Basilisk blood_?!” He shot a look at Albus. “Where on earth are you going to get _that_ from?” 

The Headmaster smiled, wryly. “Why, from the Chamber of Secrets, of course,” he answered. 

Severus stared at him for a moment. “I’m sorry; the _Chamber of Secrets_?” he echoed, finally. “I thought that was a myth!” 

“No. Harry discovered it in his second year,” Albus explained. “That whole Heir of Slytherin business.” 

“But—” Severus paused to think back, then frowned. “I remember one of the messages Miss Weasley left on the wall mentioned a chamber, but I thought that was just . . . a chamber somewhere,” he said. “You mean it was actually _the_ Chamber? And Potter discovered it? At _twelve_?!” 

Albus’ mouth curled in something that, in anyone else, Severus would have called a smirk. “Apparently, it’s only accessible by those who can speak Parseltongue,” he said. “The entrance is guarded by Myrtle.” 

“Myrtle,” Severus repeated, flatly. “Salazar Slytherin’s legendary Chamber of Secrets is guarded by a ghost that haunts a _girls’ bathroom_?” 

Chuckling, Albus turned the book back to face himself. “You have to admit, it’s effective,” he said. “Now that we have that issue sorted, how long will it take you to brew this potion?”

* * *

It took Severus three days to brew the potion, once Albus had escorted him down into the Chamber and he’d managed to tear himself away from the Basilisk corpse. 

Albus had taken it away, and now he and whomever else he’d involved were getting ready to perform the ritual. Not much longer, and nobody would remember . . . would remember . . . _Hmm, remember what?_

Shaking his head to bring himself back from wherever his thoughts had disappeared to, Severus realised he was sitting at the desk in his office. Had he been grading homework? The desk was empty, but he must have been doing _something_ here. 

Frowning to himself, Severus rose to begin preparations for his next lesson. The Yule Ball was approaching, and he would not allow any slacking off in _his_ class!

* * *

_May, 1998_  
Green eyes found black, but after a second, something in the depths of the dark pair seemed to vanish, leaving them fixed, blank, and empty. The hand holding Harry thudded to the floor, and Snape moved no more. 

Sitting back on his heels on the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack, Harry stared in disbelief. A small part of him, somewhere deep inside, was screaming, in pain and denial. Snape was dead. The greasy git who had tormented his school years and murdered Harry’s mentor was gone. 

“Harry,” Hermione hissed, tugging at his arm. “We have to go.” 

Harry allowed her to pull him up and into the tunnel. To avoid thinking or feeling about what he’d just witnessed, he focused on the task that they still had to do. He was so numb he didn’t even allow himself one last glance back at the fallen Potions Master. 

And so he missed the mist-like substance that floated in through the wall and settled over the body like a cloak.

* * *

Silence seemed to settle over the Shrieking Shack, with nothing stirring now that everyone had left. 

And then it was broken by the body abruptly arching upwards as the mist sank into it. A hoarse cry left its lips.

* * *

Severus came back to himself abruptly, panting harshly. Stunned, his gaze swept wildly around the dilapidated room that he’d thought was going to be his grave. The light hadn’t changed much, and the blood pooling on and under his body was still bright red and fresh; clearly not much time had gone by. 

He was actually quite alarmed by the pool of blood. He’d thought he’d been dead already, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still dying. Although . . . 

He forced an unsteady hand upwards and prodded at his throat, where he could still feel the ghostly fangs of Nagini. To his surprise, the skin was whole again. 

“What in Merlin’s name?” he croaked, which was a mistake, as he immediately descended into a harsh coughing fit. Twisting himself round, he lowered his head, hoping the change in position would allow him to draw an easier breath. 

He coughed so hard he was a bit worried he might end up hacking up a lung, but eventually the fit eased, allowing Severus to widen his focus and open his eyes. 

The sight of his hands underneath him almost sent him back into another coughing fit as his breath caught in astonishment and disbelief. He had _claws_! His fingernails had elongated out into long, sharp, pearly-looking claws. They looked very much like the ones Potter had had—

Wait a minute! When had _Potter_ ever had _claws_?! 

“Ohhhh,” he breathed out, as memories slammed into his head again. The Triwizard Tournament just over two years ago – he had memories of Potter Summoning his broom and flying rings around the Hungarian Horntail to safely collect the golden egg that was his prize and his clue for the next Task; now his memories were changing to Potter facing the dragon, bursting into flames, and then collapsing, followed by several days of showing ever more draconic traits. 

It had come to a head when Potter had challenged Draco Malfoy . . . over _him_. 

Severus’ arms gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor, groaning. Potter was actually a Dragoonal, and his inner dragon had tried to claim him as a mate. And now that Severus was thinking about it, he could feel something stirring deep within himself. 

“Oh, bollocks,” he groaned into the floorboards, remembering the scratch the Horntail had given him. Strangely, he seemed to remember it from both sides – his alarm when the dragon had moved as if to attack, his shock and pain as she’d injured him, and the relief that it hadn’t been worse, plus the _dragon’s_ sense of respect for him, that he’d look after a young kit, even if the kit wasn’t his and he didn’t like it. “That is the _very last time_ I try to save Potter!” he muttered. 

A series of explosions suddenly rocked the Shrieking Shack, and dust fell in thick sheets to cover Severus. He groaned again and forced himself up. _Now I have to save me_ . . .

* * *

_June, 2002_  
“Hey, guess what!” Ron Weasley said, enthusiastically, as soon as he entered the office he shared with Harry. “Mum got a letter from Charlie; he’s coming home for a visit next week!” 

“Really? That’s great,” Harry replied, leaning back in his chair. He wasn’t quite sure if he was pleased about the news or not. He’d only met Charlie a couple of times before, and had had a very strange reaction both times. The first time had been just after the third Task in the Triwizard Tournament. At the start of the summer holidays, Mrs Weasley, Bill and Charlie had all turned up to collect Ron from King’s Cross, and they had all hugged Harry. 

Charlie, to Harry’s intense embarrassment, had smelt _wonderful_ , although he couldn’t quite decide why, and as he’d already been on the verge of tears because of Mrs Weasley’s hug, he’d allowed Charlie to think that his snuffling around the older wizard’s neck was his attempt not to show he was crying. 

Strangely though, the more he’d inhaled, the more Charlie’s scent had grown, well, _disgusting_. 

The next time he’d seen Ron’s older brother had been after the final battle, when they’d all been shaken and grieving for Fred. At first, Harry had been too exhausted, but eventually he’d realised that he kept alternatively recoiling from Charlie and puffing up as though Charlie were somehow trying to steal something from him. 

He had actually been thinking about a career change – chasing dark wizards had lost its thrill by now – and after his reaction to the dragon underneath Gringotts, had made up his mind to discuss the possibility of becoming a Dragon Keeper with Charlie, but the uncontrollable behaviour put him off, and Harry hadn’t seen him again after that. 

So instead, here he was, an Auror as he’d planned. If only there wasn’t so much _paperwork_! 

“Apparently he said he’s staying for a few weeks while he investigates things at the Reserves here in the UK. Mum’s thrilled,” Ron continued, dropping down into his own chair. 

Harry gave a snort of laughter. With all her children now moved out of the Burrow into their own homes, Molly Weasley was suffering from a serious case of empty nest syndrome. It had become a running joke in the family that Bill and Fleur, the only ones with children so far, hardly ever got to even see their own children because Molly was always looking after them. 

“What’s he investigating?” Harry asked. 

“Dragon behaviour,” said Ron, beginning to rummage through the piles of parchment on his desk. “According to him, several weeks ago, the dragons in the Romanian Reserve started acting as though one had gone into mating heat, but they couldn’t find which dragon it was. And then after a couple of weeks, it just stopped. They figured it might be a wild dragon, passing by, but then the same thing started happening at other Reserves. Whatever it is, it’s been making a clear line towards the UK.” 

Harry felt something deep inside perk up. _Interesting . . . WHY is it interesting?!_ He shook his head in faint exasperation with himself, then something caught his eye in his own stack of paperwork. Pulling the parchment out of the pile, he skimmed it, and then frowned. 

“We’ve got a request here from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,” he said. “Came from the ICW originally. They think someone’s poaching dragons.” 

“Why would the International Confederation of Wizards be interested in _dragon poaching_?” Ron asked. 

“Because the ‘excess of ingredients’ are being sold all across Europe,” replied Harry, reading the report again. “In fact,” he frowned harder, then looked up at Ron, “they’re being sold in a straight line across Europe, leading right to us.” 

Ron raised his eyebrows. “You think it’s connected to what Charlie’s investigating?” he asked. 

Harry rubbed a hand across his forehead. “I think it would be a very big coincidence if there happened to be someone stirring up the dragons, and someone selling off an excessive amount of dragon ingredients, and they _weren’t_ connected,” he said. 

“Hmm,” said Ron. “Guess we’d better talk to Charlie then.”

* * *

“It’s very strange,” Charlie said to them both, a week later, as he led them into an office in the Welsh Reserve. “It was almost as if a juvenile had gone into its first mating heat, but we didn’t have any juveniles that were the right age, so we struggled to identify which dragon it was.” 

“How long did it last for?” Harry asked. Being here on the Reserve felt peculiar, almost as if he’d come home in some way. 

“Just a few days, then the dragons settled again,” replied Charlie. “That’s when we first thought it might be a wild dragon just passing by. Drink?” 

“Tea, please,” said Ron, sitting in an upright wooden chair. 

“No, thanks,” said Harry, shaking his head. He didn’t think holding anything spill-able would be a good idea at that moment. “So what made you think that it wasn’t just a normal wild dragon?” 

“We had contracted with another Reserve to breed one of our dragons with theirs,” Charlie said, waving his wand. A tea cup and saucer floated out of a nearby cupboard, hovered briefly in front of the teapot as it poured water into the cup, and then continued on its way towards Ron. He smoothly plucked it from the air and began stirring it, the aroma of the teabag blossoming into the air. “I was one of the handlers assigned to escort our dragon,” Ron’s brother continued, settling down with his own mug. “And the same thing happened at the other Reserve.” 

“While you were there?” asked Ron. 

Charlie shook his head. “Just before we got there, so all the handlers there were still talking about it. One of their handlers had been at another Reserve, and he came back the day before we were due to leave, with the same story. After that, it was fairly easy to track which way it was going.” 

“Have you heard anything about the increase in dragon ingredients on the black market?” Harry asked. 

“Yeah, we heard about that, too. It’s only scales and powdered claw, with the occasional fang and whole claw, but once we realised it was following the same pattern as the supposed wild dragon that seems to be in a mating heat, then we contacted the ICW.” Charlie took a large gulp from his mug, then set it down on the desk, turning a serious expression to Ron and Harry. “Someone’s travelling with a dragon,” he said, solemnly. “A dragon that’s in heat. I have no idea how the Muggles haven’t seen it yet, but it’s _dangerous_. You can’t tame a dragon in heat.” 

“You followed it here,” Harry pointed out. “Do you think it’s near this Reserve?” 

“No, it’s not reached here yet,” said Charlie, sounding surprised. “It really should have done; it should have reached the UK and the Hebrides Reserve two weeks ago. It never stays longer than a week, so it should have been here by now.” 

“Unless it was looking for something in particular,” said Ron, glancing at Harry. 

“You think it wanted something that’s in Scotland?” Charlie asked. 

“Seems like it,” Harry agreed. “No other reason why it’d suddenly stop moving.” He exchanged another look with Ron. “Guess we’re going to Scotland!”

* * *

“Blimey, I’d forgotten how _cold_ it gets up here,” Ron complained, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso and shivering. 

Harry looked around the area the Portkey had dropped them in. They were somewhere in the Highlands, fairly near to the coast if the sound of the ocean was any indication. As far as he knew, the Hebridean Dragon Reserve was just a few miles away from where they were now, but they weren’t allowed any closer. The Reserve had closed its borders, citing an out of control dragon. 

“Well, I told you to wrap up,” he said, absently. Something about the area was calling to him. They were in a fairly large valley that stretched away in all directions. Hills of varying heights surrounded them, all tinted either purple or dark green with heather and moss and some kind of wildflower that Harry couldn’t identify. There didn’t seem to be any wildlife nearby, although that wasn’t surprising with dragons close by. To Harry, the air seemed thick and humming. A part of him that was very deeply buried was stirring, stretching and wriggling as though just waking from a long sleep. 

“Where to?” Ron asked, looking around as well. 

Harry lifted an arm and pointed. “That way,” he said, confidently. 

His friend blinked at him. “You sure?” he asked, doubtfully. “Doesn’t look any different to me.” 

“It’s over there; I know it,” Harry confirmed. He wasn’t quite sure _how_ he knew, but he did. Whatever they were looking for was to the west of them – and it had sensed him, too. 

“Lead the way, then,” said Ron, shrugging and gesturing for Harry to go first. 

They hiked for what seemed like hours, punctuated by the constant litany of “Are we nearly there yet?” and “Are you sure you know where you’re going?” from Ron. Harry was gritting his teeth together so hard he was worried he was going to end up with nothing but stubs, and if Ron asked if he knew where he was going just _one more time_ . . .

“That rock formation looks familiar. Are you _sure_ you’re taking us the right way?” Ron asked, right on cue. 

Harry gave a deep growl of frustration, but then paused as he passed the rock formation Ron had been talking about. Puzzled, he swung back to it. They very definitely hadn’t seen it before, because if they had, he surely would have noticed the magic that was rising off it like a heat shimmer. 

“I’m sure I’ve seen that twice already,” Ron complained, coming to a halt beside him. “I think you’re lost and taking us in circles, but don’t want to admit it.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows at his friend. The valley they were in, although fairly big and flat, wasn’t big enough that they’d manage to travel in circles without noticing. Especially since they were following whatever it was that Harry could sense, and he sincerely doubted that _that_ was going in circles. 

“Hold still for a minute,” he ordered, and drew his wand. Ron looked alarmed as Harry waved it over his friend. “Hmm, how very interesting,” Harry murmured, turning to wave his wand over the rock formation, too. 

“What? What is it?” Ron demanded, his tone anxious. “What have you found?” 

“There’s a wide-spread Confundus over the area,” Harry said, returning his wand to its holster. “Anyone who shouldn’t be here ends up thinking they’re lost and going in circles, like you did, until they give up and leave the area.” 

“What?” Ron’s voice came out as a squeak, but then he frowned. “Hang on, so why didn’t it affect you?” 

Harry shook his head. “No idea,” he admitted. “Must be something to do with how I know where to go.” He tilted his head, thinking. “Maybe this is part of why the Dragon Reserve closed its borders,” he said. 

“Wh—oh,” breathed Ron. “You think it spreads far enough that the Dragon Keepers couldn’t get out?” 

“No, they could probably Apparate if necessary, or even use Portkeys if there was really no other way, but we don’t know how far this effect spreads the other way – we could be on the edge of it here, and if the Keepers were walking among the dragons and got Confunded . . .” Harry’s voice trailed off. 

Ron winced. “Yeah, that wouldn’t be good,” he agreed. “You think it’s safe to keep going?” 

“For me, yes,” Harry said, knowing that Ron wasn’t going to like the next bit. “For you – we don’t know how much worse this could get, Ron.” 

His friend scowled at him and folded his arms over his chest. “I am _not_ leaving you here,” he argued. “What if this does end up affecting you and you get in trouble?” 

“Ron, you wouldn’t be able to help anyway,” Harry pointed out. “You think we’re lost.” 

“No,” said Ron, slowly, but he looked unsure. “No, I—” He glanced around them, and bit his lip, before looking back at the rock formation. He sighed, and his shoulders slumped. “Yeah, I do,” he admitted, reluctantly. “Fine, I’ll go and report back. But if I don’t hear regular reports from you, then I’m bringing an entire squad of Aurors back with me.” 

Harry laughed. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “See you in a bit.” He clapped Ron on the shoulder, and then strode off, his strides swift and sure in the direction of whatever was calling to him. By the time he thought to look back, there was no sign of Ron. 

Facing forwards again, Harry lifted his head and took a deep breath in through his mouth. There was something in the air, something that he could almost feel rolling across his tongue and curling against the roof of his mouth, but when he tried to identify what that something was, he just couldn’t think of the words. 

He was heading towards a group of hills, and rounded a corner that he expected to take him to the foot of some kind of path between them. What he found instead caused him to stop dead in his tracks. 

There was a _house_ perched amongst the foothills. 

And it was almost literally perched, since it was built on top of a short, squat tower. 

“What on earth?” Harry murmured to himself. Drawing his wand, he advanced carefully up the path towards the strange dwelling. 

Reaching the base of the tower, he circled it, wondering just how anybody ever entered the house, since there was no ladder, no stairs nor a lift. It was just the thick stump, with the base of the house balanced on top of it twenty feet or so off the ground. Knocking on the trunk gained him nothing but skinned knuckles. 

Wandering back to the head of the path, Harry gazed out over the landscape, hoping to see some sign of the occupant, but all he could see was scrub grass and rocks. With a resigned sigh, he turned back and settled himself down at the base of the tower. He’d wait for a few hours to see if the occupant came back. If nobody came, then he’d continue his search.

* * *

Getting to his feet, Severus Snape wearily stretched, feeling the muscles in his neck and lower back protest at the movement. He’d been crouched in the midst of a thorny scrub bush for the better part of the afternoon, while two dragons wheeled overhead. 

_Bloody dragon,_ he cursed to himself. _If I could get my hands on that blasted Hungarian Horntail_ . . . 

Blowing out an exasperated breath, he carefully examined his surroundings. It wouldn’t be the first time a dragon had managed to sneak up on him when he thought he was alone. 

Thankfully, this time, it appeared the two dragons really had given up, or had at least moved on to examine new pastures. Reaching back into the bush for the basket of Maiden’s Moss that he’d been gathering when the dragons had first appeared, Severus set off for home. 

He hadn’t planned to settle back in the UK. After his supposed death at Nagini’s fangs, he’d fled to Europe. He hadn’t thought his second chance at life would last much longer if the Ministry had managed to get hold of him. Life in Azkaban would have been the best scenario he could have hoped for, and he didn’t think there were enough members of the Wizengamot or the Ministry who were fond of him to allow him that. Likely he would have been handed over to the Dementors, or pushed through the Veil. 

He’d found himself eventually in the wilds of Russia. It had been isolated enough – and cold enough – that he’d been able to hide the changes that had been wrought upon him. It was bitterly ironic that after all the trouble Potter had caused with being a Dragoonal, the same blasted dragon had turned _him_ into one, too. 

Unfortunately, one little detail about Potter’s contretemps had somehow managed to slip his notice, and so the abrupt swooping down of an Ironbelly, five years after he’d ‘died’, had caught him off guard. Barely managing to avoid the swiping claws, Severus had sprinted for his life to a small cave that he’d discovered. 

The huge dragon had followed him to it, and had paced outside it for hours, alternately bellowing and crooning. Severus had spent the time sweating heavily, and resisting a frankly bizarre urge to croon back at it. Eventually, he’d fallen asleep, and when he’d awoken, the dragon had gone. 

When he’d finally reached the small cottage – which was really too generous a name for what was basically one little room – he’d discovered that the scales that traced his cheekbones had turned from their usual soft gold colour into a bright, almost blinding silver. Even more puzzling, the scales that covered his chest and belly like armour had changed from their chequered black and white pattern into an obscenely bright blue. 

Two days later, after he’d been attacked by another four dragons, Severus had heard some of the Ukrainian Dragon Keepers talking when he’d gone into a town for supplies. The topic of their conversation had stunned him; they believed a wild dragon had gone into mating heat, and all their dragons had been stirred up into a frenzy. 

After yet another dragon had almost pounced on him on his way home, it hadn’t taken much to realise that it wasn’t a wild dragon riling up those on the Reserve . . . _it was him!_

He’d left Russia the very next day, working his way back into Eastern Europe. 

Unfortunately, he’d failed to take into account the fact that the very uncivilised areas he was trying to hide in were the perfect hiding place for large numbers of magical creatures. He’d been almost in the middle of the Romanian Dragon Reserve before he’d realised where he was, and had cursed himself thoroughly when two Longhorns had discovered him. Thankfully, each had been too involved with seeing the other one off to notice when he slunk away. 

The Hungarian Reserve hadn’t been much better. Severus had spent three days pinned in a system of caves by what appeared to be a group of juvenile Vipertooths until they were chased off by a Horntail. 

At that point, he’d decided that it was about time he got the funds necessary to travel through more populated areas. He was fairly certain he couldn’t be recognised anyway, thanks to his new draconic adornments, but was prepared to risk it to avoid any more would-be amorous encounters. Luckily, he’d had a steady supply of dragon scales and claws available. 

He’d also decided it would probably be a good idea to read up on mating heats so he’d be at least slightly prepared for whatever else was going to happen to him. It turned out that his heading across Europe wasn’t actually him escaping all the dangerous suitors, but him heading back to his homeland to ‘nest’. 

Even thinking the word had him in a foul mood for days. He was Severus Snape – and a man. He did not _nest_ , Merlin scorch it! 

Except . . . apparently . . . he did. 

Just reaching the shores of Scotland had drained a tension that he hadn’t known was in him. He’d spent several days prowling the various rocky beaches, searching for something that he had no real idea of. Widening his search areas, he’d eventually stumbled upon this valley, and something deep inside had sighed _Yes_. 

The Confundus Charm had unfortunately been necessary, as his perfect ‘nest’ was only a few miles away from the local Dragon Reserve. When he’d learnt that, Severus had wondered just how broken his instincts were – he’d wanted to _avoid_ dragons, not settle down as their neighbour. The Charm didn’t work on the dragons themselves, but worked well enough on the Keepers that they’d eventually closed their borders. 

Now, though, either they were opening up the Reserve again, or those two had managed to smuggle themselves out. 

Regardless, it undoubtedly meant that he’d be spending several days safely tucked away in his home until he was sure he wouldn’t be surprised again. 

_Speaking of surprises._ Severus came to a halt as soon as his home came into view. There was someone lying at the base of it, apparently fast asleep. How on earth had they managed to penetrate the Confundus Charm? There hadn’t been a human around here for months. 

Resting a cautious hand on his wand, Severus warily moved closer, but stopped again as he recognised his unexpected visitor. 

The visitor who was stirring, and blinking himself awake. 

“Snape? What the—” Potter rubbed his eyes, then blinked hard several times. “Am I dead?” he asked. “Oh, Merlin, I’m dead, aren’t I?” 

“What?” Severus shook his head, confused. “Of course you aren’t dead, Potter! What are you on about? How did you get here?” 

“Something was calling to me,” Potter said vaguely. He began patting himself down. “I must be dead; you’re here.” 

“What?” Severus repeated. “Why does me being here mean you’re dead?” 

“Well, _you’re_ dead,” replied Potter, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world. 

Severus drew himself up, indignantly. “I am _not_ dead, Potter!” he snapped. “Obviously you’ve been affected by the Confundus Charm—” 

Potter tipped his head to one side, appearing to seriously consider this. “No,” he said eventually, thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. I managed to get here without thinking I’d become lost, like Ron did.” 

“Weasley? You brought Weasley with you?” Severus felt something that felt quite a bit like panic begin to flutter in his chest. “Where is he now?” 

“I told you, he thought he’d become lost,” said Potter, and actually had the audacity to wave a dismissive hand at Severus. “He’s fine; he went to report back.” 

“Report back on what?” Severus asked, sharply. “Who else knows I’m here, Potter?” 

Potter looked surprised. “No one,” he said. “I told you – Ron thought he was lost.” 

Severus opened his mouth to argue further, but shut it again. Potter had just repeated himself three times in as many minutes. Even if the Confundus wasn’t affecting him, _something_ certainly was. 

“If I’m not dead, am I dreaming?” Potter asked. 

Severus rolled his eyes. “ _No_ , you are not dreaming, Potter,” he informed the idiot. “You are, unfortunately, alive and well. Now if you don’t mind—” 

The rest of his words froze in his throat as a large shadow slid over them. It was a Hebridean Black, the largest one Severus had ever seen. It bellowed as it went over them. 

“Is that—?” Potter began, squinting upwards and shading his eyes with one hand. 

“Shut up, Potter, and get in the house!” Severus hissed, then he paused. Just how was Potter supposed to do that when he couldn’t reach it? Severus used his wings – the only time he ever did – but Potter didn’t have his wings anymore; Albus had completely suppressed all of his Dragoonal traits. 

Severus sighed. “Oh, bugger!” he groaned, then reached for Potter, as the dragon’s shadow swung around and came back towards them. “Hold on tight!” he warned, pulling Potter in tight to his body. 

Potter gave a squawk of indignation, which turned into a squeak of surprise when Severus’ wings abruptly manifested from his shoulders. “What the . . . ?” the Boy Who Lived To Annoy Severus gulped, staring in wide-eyed fascination at the leathery appendages. 

Too busy keeping track of the large dragon, which was currently turning back for another pass, Severus didn’t answer him. Instead, with a strong downbeat of his wings, he launched them upwards. 

“Ack!” 

Apparently Potter wasn’t used to flying if it wasn’t on a broom. Thankfully, they weren’t going very far, as the brat seemed to be trying to strangle Severus – or climb up him like a monkey. It caused Severus to stumble as he landed on the ledge in front of his house, and they all but fell through the front door. 

“What _are_ you? What’s happening to me?” Potter demanded, shakily, pushing himself away from Severus. 

“Nothing’s happening to you,” Severus retorted, retracting his wings and heading for the nearest window to see where the dragon had got to. “Except for the fact that you wandered into a place where you’re not welcome – nothing new for you, surely. You can leave as soon as that dragon does.” 

Potter shook his head. “No, but – what _are_ you?” he repeated. “Some kind of demon, or something?” 

“I _beg_ your pardon!” Severus spun on his heel, insulted. “I am _not_ a demon!” he said, hotly. 

“You’re certainly not an angel; not with wings like those,” Potter said, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Merlin’s beard,” groaned Severus. “For the last time, Potter – _I am NOT dead_!” 

“But you should be,” said Potter. “You were dying in the Shrieking Shack. We thought you _were_ dead. So why aren’t you?” 

Any hope he’d had that he could get Potter out of here without having to explain precisely what had happened to him shrivelled up and died, screaming piteously. Sighing, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and turned back to the window, scanning the landscape outside for the beast’s shadow. 

“I’m a Dragoonal now,” he admitted, finally. He glanced over his shoulder when the silence continued. Potter was staring at him, one eyebrow quirked upwards. “It means I’m part dragon shifter,” he explained. “The Hungarian Horntail from the Triwizard Tournament did it to me.” 

Potter frowned. “You were close to the dragons?” he asked. “When? I thought Charlie and the other Keepers had them hidden in the Forbidden Forest. Or did you mean after the first Task?” 

_Oh._ Severus rolled his eyes at himself. Potter didn’t remember. That had been a hell of a spell that Albus had done. 

“Never mind,” he said, waving a hand just as dismissively as Potter had done earlier. “All you need to know is that you are free to leave whenever you like.” 

“No, hang on a minute,” Potter protested. “Does you being a . . . Dragoonal, did you say? Does being one of them have anything to do with the glut of dragon ingredients that have occurred on the black market in Europe? Or with the fact that every single Dragon Reserve from here to Romania has had their dragons in an uproar over a mating heat?” 

_Damn!_ Severus turned to face Potter again. The blasted brat had become too sharp for his own good. Although what Potter was doing investigating something like that was beyond Severus. 

“Become a Dragon Keeper, have we?” he sneered. 

“No, I’m an Auror,” said Potter, taking a step closer. His nostrils flared. “And if someone’s taking a dragon through Europe where Muggles could see it, then it’s my duty to—” His nostrils flared again, and he took a deep breath, taking yet another step towards Severus. “—to—” Yet another inhale, just as a bellow from the Hebridean Black outside shook the house. “What is that _smell_?” Potter breathed, closing the remaining distance between himself and Severus. 

Alarmed, Severus realised that Potter’s pupils had dilated. Apparently, Albus’ spell wasn’t quite enough to overcome the Dragoonal instinct to mate now that said mate was right in front of him. 

“ _Sevveerruuss_ ,” Potter breathed his first name, in a long, hissing exhale. Before he could guess what Potter was up to, Potter had pressed his nose to Severus’ neck, giving out short huffs of air and then inhaling deeply, greedily. 

“Potter!” he tried to say indignantly, but to his chagrin, it came out as an actual croon. And he had to admit, this close, Potter didn’t smell too bad himself. Severus found himself burying his face in Potter’s bird’s nest of a hairstyle and inhaling deeply. 

The feel of a tongue licking a wet path up his neck made him jump and kicked his brain back on. 

“Potter, no,” he managed to get out, although he sounded so croaky he was amazed that any words were actually audible. He took hold of Potter’s elbows and tried to take a step back. “Whatever you think you’re doing – _we’re_ doing – we’re not.” 

“ _Smells so good_ ,” Potter hissed, and the sibilance in his voice caused a shiver to dance its way down Severus’ spine. Potter’s hands were on his hips, holding him steady. _When did they get there?_ he wondered, but it was an idle concern, quickly forgotten as Potter abruptly leant upwards and fastened his mouth over Severus’. 

_Warm_ was the last coherent thought Severus had, as his attention was quickly subsumed by the warmth flooding through his system. Potter nipped at his lower lip, and Severus moaned, opening his mouth in invitation. 

Apparently the mating heat had the ability to push through Albus’ barrier, as the tongue that entered Severus’ mouth was forked, twisting neatly to tease both the top of his mouth and twine around his own tongue. 

Harry – as he couldn’t be Potter now; not like this – ran a hand up Severus’ back to fist in his hair, pulling Severus’ head back. His mouth freed, Severus panted heavily. His breath hitched in his throat, though, as Harry’s mouth fastened itself at the point where his neck met his shoulder. 

“Mine,” Harry growled, and sank his teeth in. 

Severus gave a shout, whether of protest or agreement he couldn’t tell, but his knees buckled, and Harry was suddenly supporting his entire weight. Not that the boy seemed to be complaining, or even noticed, as he released Severus’ flesh from between his teeth and ran his tongue over the mark. 

“Bed,” he panted, moving one of his hands to pat vaguely at Harry’s arm. He was far too old to be doing anything on the floor. 

Harry made a grumbling noise but propped him upright again. “Where?” he grunted. Severus nodded his head in the direction of his bedroom. To Severus’ surprise, Harry then swept him up into his arms. 

“What in Merlin’s name are you _doing_?!” he demanded, the shock momentarily clearing his head. 

“Taking you to bed,” said Harry, in a tone that strongly suggested he thought Severus was an idiot to even have to ask. “Wasn’t that what you wanted?” 

“I can _walk_ , you know,” Severus muttered, folding his arms awkwardly over his chest. 

Harry ignored him and continued down the hallway to Severus’ room. Once inside the door, however, he stopped in his tracks, gaping at the cavernous expanse of room. “Whu—?” he started. 

Severus sniffed, haughtily, and slid out of his arms. “Wizard space, Potter,” he said. “Surely you’ve heard of it?” 

Harry rubbed a hand over the back of his head. “Well, yeah, of course,” he said. “Just wasn’t expecting it here, that’s all. The front room looks so—” He caught the dark look Severus was giving him and hastily closed his mouth. “Look,” he said, after a moment, “I need to ask, before we get . . . caught up again. Are you _sure_ you want this?” 

“Potter, if I didn’t want it, do you think you’d still be upright and conscious?” Severus asked, smirking at him. “Or even still in the area?” 

Surprised, Harry barked out a laugh. “No, I suppose not,” he agreed. 

“Perhaps the better question is – do _you_ want this?” Severus said. 

Harry lowered his gaze for a moment, considering. “You know what, yeah, I do,” he said eventually, looking back up at Severus. “I have absolutely no idea what’s happening to me, but yeah, I want this. I want _you_.” He took a step closer, reaching out his hand to lay it on Severus’ chest. 

It was at that point that Severus discovered that the scales covering his body were exquisitely sensitive. A white-hot bolt of desire shot through him from where Potter’s hand touched him straight to his cock, and he found his knees buckling yet again. His vision went strangely cloudy, and there was a growling noise coming from somewhere. 

Harry smiled, fiercely, and pulled Severus’ head down to kiss him. 

This time, it was Severus’ tongue that did the plundering, trying its best to wrap itself around Harry’s, and failing that, to taste every millimetre of his mouth. His hands were traversing Harry’s back. It wasn’t enough. 

“Off,” he managed to get out, tugging at the outer robes Harry was wearing. “Get this thing off!” 

Obligingly, Harry’s hands came up to fumble at the fastenings of his robes, but he was trembling so much he couldn’t manage them. Finally, with a growl of frustration, Severus unsheathed one claw, and hooked it into the top of the fabric, before pulling downwards. 

The cloth parted as if it was melting away, and Harry turned his gaze downwards to blink in surprise as his bare chest was exposed. “Wow,” he said. “That’s a handy trick.” 

“I’ll show you just how _handy_ it is,” Severus said, his voice dropping to a purr. He caught Harry to him, cupping the other man’s arse, his claws ever so gently digging in. 

Harry shivered. “Okay, so no more puns,” he promised, breathlessly. Then he tugged at the shirt Severus was wearing. “Your turn,” he urged. 

Trailing one hand up and over Harry’s hip, causing another shiver with the drag of his claws, Severus slowly unfastened the top button. Then the next. Then the next. 

“Tease,” Harry accused, huskily. 

“You know what they say about good things,” replied Severus, leaning in to nip at Harry’s earlobe. Harry threw his head back with a gasp, clutching at Severus’ shoulders as his knees went weak. 

“What—” he began, then had to stop and clear his throat, as it was so raspy that he was practically inaudible. “What about those who won’t wait?” 

“Then they get _naughty_ things,” rumbled Severus, directly into Harry’s ear, his fingers skimming down Harry’s chest, pausing to pluck at a nipple on the way. Harry’s skin twitched in his wake, and Severus wondered if he’d be more sensitive if he had his scales back. If this turned out to be a long-term thing, he’d have to see if Albus’ spell could be broken. Just the thought of Potter now with the great swathes of scales over his cheekbones and down his chest caused a powerful surge of arousal in Severus. 

Continuing downwards, Severus spent a moment teasing his fingers along the waistband of Harry’s trousers before heading lower, outlining the hard flesh he could feel. Harry gasped, swore, then bucked his hips forward, pressing himself more firmly into Severus’ touch. 

“Bugger this,” he said, breathlessly. Reaching up between them, he gripped Severus’ shirt tightly, and pulled. Buttons went pinging everywhere and, in the back of his mind, Severus was sure he should be more annoyed about that, because he’d liked this shirt. But Harry had spread the shirt wide, and was running his hands over the scales adorning Severus’ chest. 

The pleasure was so intense that Severus’ vision actually whited out, and all the blood and bone seemed to be draining out of his body. Harry chuckled and caught him around the waist as Severus slumped against him. 

“Bed,” he suggested, and began to shuffle them both backwards. 

They must have been closer to the bed than Severus had thought, because it wasn’t long before Harry was lowering him to the soft surface. 

“So,” Harry began, standing at the foot of the bed. Severus shakily raised his head to watch as Harry’s hands went to the button of his trousers. “About these naughty things . . . ?”

* * *

_Two weeks later_ . . .  
His bones had disappeared. 

Harry should probably have been more concerned about that, but if they’d remained in place, then no doubt they’d be hurting just as much as every other part of his body. 

A vague twitching sensation made him roll his head to the side to peer off the edge of the bed. He’d almost had a heart attack when, at the end of one particularly vigorous session a week ago, large leathery wings had burst out – from _him_. 

He’d then almost stabbed Severus in the eye with a horn as he’d jerked from the shock of suddenly being covered by the new appendages. The whole situation had ended with Harry flailing ignominiously and falling off the bed in a flurry of arms and wings. 

He had sat on the floor, gaping, as Severus had leaned over the side of the bed and laughed at him. 

Now, a stir of movement and a heartfelt groan beside him caused Harry to slowly roll his head the other way. Severus was lying beside him on his stomach, one arm outstretched over Harry, and the other curled under his pillow. 

“Is it over?” Harry asked. 

Severus blearily opened one eye to look at him. “Yes, thank Merlin,” he croaked, then coughed. “Hadn’t you realised the roaring has stopped?” he asked, sounding a lot more coherent. 

Surprised, Harry tilted his head to listen. Various dragons – or perhaps just the same one – had been circling the house for days, roaring their frustration at being unable to reach the Dragoonal in heat. Harry had gotten used to it eventually, and hadn’t realised that he _wasn’t_ hearing it anymore. 

“Thank goodness I have another five years before this happens again,” Severus muttered, closing his eye again and burying his face into the pillow. Then a thought seemed to strike him, and he lifted his head again. “Unless _you_ go into a separate heat,” he said, sounding horrified. 

Harry shuddered, equally horrified at the thought. “Don’t you dare say that!” he said. “One heat once every five years would suit me just fine.” Harry had a nasty thought of his own. “Don’t dragon heats produce eggs?” he asked. 

Severus slowly turned his head to look at him fully, then gave him the coldest glare Harry had ever seen from him, and one that was quite jarring, considering what they’d been doing for the past two weeks. 

“I do _not_ produce _eggs_ ,” he sneered. 

“Oh, good,” Harry sighed, relieved. He stretched, feeling the muscles in his shoulders and lower back pulling. “I’m going to go clean up. Want me to bring you a warm flannel?” 

Severus rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Potter,” he said. “Are you a—?” 

He was interrupted by Harry clapping a hand over his mouth. “Don’t finish that sentence,” Harry warned, laughing. “Believe me, that’s not an association you want me to make in this bed.” Severus raised his eyebrows, but made no comment as Harry rolled out of the bed.

* * *

“So why d’you think it happened at the Triwizard Tournament and not any earlier?” Harry asked Severus several hours later, when they’d both showered – separately and together – and were sitting in Severus’ kitchen. “After all, I’d already met Norb—” Abruptly remembering whom he was speaking to, Harry fell silent. 

“Norbert,” Severus finished, heaving a sigh. Harry looked at him and cocked an eyebrow in query. “Hagrid couldn’t keep a secret to save his life,” Severus continued. “Of _course_ he let it slip that he’d kept and hatched an illegal dragon in his wooden hut.” 

“Of course he did,” said Harry, shaking his head. “Anyway, why didn’t the contact with Norbert bring out the Dragoonal in me?” 

“It’s possible that the dragon was too young,” Severus mused after a moment. “Or you were.” 

“So it came out when I was fourteen instead.” Harry shook his head again, then paused, his eyes going wide. “Oh, Merlin, I tried to challenge _Malfoy_ for you,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. 

Severus laughed. “Melted one of my worktables over it, too,” he teased. “Perhaps I should have you reimburse me for it.” 

Harry peeked through his fingers. “I’m sure I can find some way to work it off,” he agreed. “In the meantime—” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “—I’d better firecall Ron – er, and work, too.” He grimaced. “That’s if they haven’t fired me for disappearing for two weeks.” 

“You’re the great Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived,” Severus pointed out. “They probably think you’ve shacked up in some love nest.” 

“And they’d be right.” Harry winked at Severus as he sauntered out of the kitchen into the living room. “Ron Weasley’s office!” Severus heard him call out, along with the _whoosh_ of a Floo call. 

Severus couldn’t hear Weasley’s side, but he could hear Harry clear enough. “Ron, I’m fine, honestly!” Harry was laughing as he tried to get a word in edgeways. “Soo, I’ve got something to tell you. Surprise – turns out I’m half dragon!” 

Even from where he was sitting, Severus could hear the _thud_. 

“. . . Ron? . . . _Ron?!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Ferula spell was used by Remus on Ron’s leg in _Prisoner of Azkaban_. The beginning of the bit in the Shrieking Shack came from _Deathly Hallows_. 
> 
> Please leave a comment here or at [Livejournal](http://snape-potter.livejournal.com/3679304.html), [Insanejournal](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/snape_potter/1624043.html), or [Dreamwidth](http://snape-potter.dreamwidth.org/926581.html).


	2. Dragon Spawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short follow-up to Dragon's Grace, written in honour of the late Alan Rickman's birthday last month.

“Potter, what is _that_?” 

“Umm—” Harry glanced down at the cup he was holding out, then looked back up at Severus. “Tea?” he tried. 

“And _those_?” 

Harry’s gaze lowered again to stare in bemusement at the plate he was holding in his other hand. It was neatly laid out with several scones, cut into halves and covered in strawberry jam. “Afternoon snack?” he said, weakly. 

Severus scowled at him. “And what, exactly, gave you the impression that I wanted one?” he demanded. 

If his hands hadn’t both been full, Harry would have rubbed the back of his neck. To be honest, he didn’t know why he’d brought them over to Severus. He hadn’t even wanted them himself. 

“I’ll just . . . put them back,” he muttered, turning to return to the kitchen. 

A snort from Severus stopped him. “Well, you may as well leave them now that you’ve done them,” he said. 

Baffled – Severus had made quite a point before of not liking strawberries, in _any_ form – Harry placed his offerings on the side table beside Severus’ chair, and retreated to the kitchen.

* * *

“Harry, what on earth are you doing sleeping on the settee? You’ll hurt your neck.” 

Blinking himself fully awake, Harry winced and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Too late for that,” he muttered, levering himself upright, with a lot more wincing. It felt as if all the bones in his neck had fused together, and the muscles in his shoulder and neck were spasming. “And I’m sleeping out here because you kicked me out of bed.” 

“What?” Severus sounded – and looked – surprised. “Why would I . . . ?” 

“I have no idea. One minute I’m fast asleep, the next I find myself on the floor. Then you wrapped yourself up in the duvet, and hissed at me every time I tried to get back on the bed.” 

“I did that?” Severus frowned, uncertainly. “I don’t remember doing that.” 

Harry forced himself to stand up and stretch, and almost instantly regretted it. “Believe me,” he said, wryly, “I have the bruises to prove it.” 

A slow smile curved Severus’ lips. “Perhaps I should kiss them better,” he purred. “It’s the least I can do, since I apparently gave them to you.” 

“The least . . .” agreed Harry, absently, as Severus led him into their bedroom.

* * *

“Sev! Dinner!” Harry called. 

To his surprise, Severus appeared a lot more quickly than Harry had expected. Seating himself, Harry watched as Severus eagerly plucked a morsel up with his fingers, and began chewing with a satisfying _crunch!_

At the unexpected sound, both of them froze, looked at each other, and then looked down at Severus’ plate. 

The plate that was covered in empty snail shells, half buried in a large pile of soil. 

“What the—?” Harry exclaimed, shocked. He didn’t remember preparing _that_! “Sev, I’m so sorry! I don’t know . . . I’ll just . . .” he stuttered, reaching for the plate as he began to rise from his seat. 

An arm abruptly curled around the plate, and a low growl rumbled from between Severus’ teeth. The normally pale golden scales over his cheekbones were beginning to turn a harsh red. 

“Um, okay.” Harry slowly sank back into his chair. “I’ll just . . . let you have it, then.” 

After a moment’s hard staring, Severus finally straightened up and sighed. “Apologies, Harry,” he said. “It appears the Dragoonal instincts are getting the better of us.” 

“Instincts?” Harry reached out to touch Severus’ hand. “Sev, what’s happening? You’re not going into heat again, are you?” he asked, alarmed, as the thought occurred to him. It was barely two weeks since the _last_ heat. 

Shaking his head, Severus took Harry’s hand in his own, although Harry suspected it was more because he wanted to ensure Harry couldn’t remove the plate from in front of him rather than any great desire to hold Harry’s hand. “No, it’s not heat,” he reassured. Then he pulled a face as if he’d bitten into a lemon – or was looking at one of Neville’s brewing attempts. “Unfortunately, I fear you were right.” 

“Oh. Good. Great.” Harry paused, biting his lower lip. “Uh, right about what?” 

“Have you ever seen birds, right before they lay their eggs?” Severus asked. Confused – _what did birds have to do with their Dragoonal instincts?_ – Harry shook his head. “They need calcium, to build the shells,” explained Severus. “So they tend to eat a lot of shells; snail, usually, but occasionally discarded shells from other birds. Sometimes soil, if they can’t find enough snails.” He looked down pointedly at his plate, picked up another shell, one that wasn’t quite as empty as it could have been, and popped it into his mouth. 

Swallowing hard, Harry looked away, trying to figure out the link between birds laying their eggs and Severus . . . oh. _OH!_

Harry’s gaze shot back up to meet Severus’. “You . . . you’re . . .” he spluttered, his gaze falling to Severus’ waist. “Oh, Merlin, really?” 

“I fear so,” said Severus, glumly. “It explains all of our actions recently.” 

Torn, Harry couldn’t decide whether he wanted to smother Severus in hugs and kisses, or run away as fast as he could, screaming his head off. 

‘ _Don’t dragon heats produce eggs?_ ’ he remembered asking, once Severus’ heat had finished. And Severus’ scathing response of ‘ _I do_ not _produce_ eggs’. 

Except . . . apparently . . . he did. 

“Um – er – so . . . what do we do?” he asked. 

Severus paused, another shell half-way to his mouth. “I continue eating . . . _this_ ,” he said, grimacing, “and then presumably, at some point tomorrow, I shall . . .” He made a vague hand gesture. “. . . produce an egg.” 

Harry rubbed his free hand over the back of his neck. “And, uh, just how _will_ you produce an egg?” he asked, hesitantly. 

Severus gave him a pained look. “Believe me, I don’t think we want to know,” he said.

* * *

As it turned out, the reason Harry had been forcibly kicked out of bed was because Severus’ instincts had decreed it the perfect place for a nest. The following morning, Severus curled himself up under several duvets, hissing and roaring every time Harry approached the bed. 

He ended up pacing maniacally in the living room, checking the window, the door, and the bedroom every few seconds, his shoulders tense, and claws sprouting from his fingertips. It seemed his own protective instincts had gone into overdrive. 

However, there was no sign of anybody outside – Severus’ Confundus Charm was still up, Harry reminded himself; they’d have to see about removing that, or reducing it, at some point so that the Dragon Reserve could start functioning again – and the only sign of any strange dragons was an elderly female that was perched several miles away, staring intently at their house. 

“Seems we’ve got a midwife on hand,” Harry called out. There was no response from Severus, aside from a few grumbles and a hiss or two. Harry tried desperately not to think of just _how_ Severus was producing an _egg_ from his very _male_ body. 

Thankfully, when Severus finally allowed him back in the bedroom several hours later, there was no sign of any blood. Instead, nestled in a pile of duvets in the middle of the bed, with pillows surrounding it, was a small, cream-shelled egg. 

“Wow,” Harry whispered. He reached out and gingerly touched it with a finger. It was quite hot, and softer than he’d been expecting. “Isn’t it . . . a bit small?” he asked, glancing at Severus. “Is it okay?” 

“It’ll be fine,” Severus said, dismissively, although even as he spoke, he was poking and prodding the material to hold the egg better. “It’ll grow, and harden. As long as we keep it warm, then it should hatch right on schedule.” 

“Which will be . . . ?” Harry queried. 

Severus shrugged. “No idea,” he admitted. He ran a gentle hand over the egg. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

* * *

_Several months later…_

“Harry! It’s hatching!” Severus bellowed. 

Harry cringed. “Merlin, Sev, I’m right here in the same room!” he protested. “And I can see it’s hatching.” 

He certainly could. The egg – much, _much_ larger than it had been when Severus had first laid it – was now rocking alarmingly, and minute cracks were appearing all over it, as the infant inside fought to break free. There were muffled grunts coming from it, and tiny squalls of distress. 

“No,” Severus said, as Harry stepped forward to help. “It has to break out on its own!” 

“How is it supposed to do that?” Harry asked. “Sev, it’s not _actually_ a dragon. I hope,” he added under his breath, before continuing, “It’s not got anything to help break the shell.” 

“It’s . . . kicking,” said Severus, eventually, with a pause in the middle that meant he’d had to think about it. 

“The poor thing’s going to get tired long before it manages to kick a hole through that shell!” Harry pointed out. He stepped forward again and carefully tapped one of his claws on the shell. The infant inside froze for a moment, before the rocking and squalling began again, more enthusiastically this time, as though knowing it’s parents were out there had galvanised it. 

Holding the egg steady with his other hand, Harry drew his claw along one of the cracks in the shell, widening it and chipping away at the tough material. Once they could see the infant through it, still enclosed in the protective sac, Severus came to stand beside Harry, nudging him out of the way. 

Unsheathing his own claws, he carefully punctured the sac and tore it off, leaving their child to take his first gasping breaths of air, before he commenced to trying his new lungs out to see just what volume he could reach. 

“It’s a boy,” said Harry, softly, gazing down at their son. Reaching out, he ran a hand over the tufts of wild black hair, and smiled down into warm, hazel eyes. “Hello, there.” 

Severus ran his finger down the baby’s cheek, across the small strip of tiny green scales that highlighted the cheekbones. “Alan,” he said, equally softly. “Our Alan.” 

Harry slid his other arm around Severus, kissing his cheek before looking back down at their newborn. “Alan,” he agreed. “Our handsome boy. Happy birthday.”


End file.
